“Why?” Carpenter repeated her question, “Why? Because we love each other or we don’t. And we can’t love at arms’ length, dear. We’ve got to be close, trustful, together. You do like me, don’t you, Margaret?” “You know I do.” “And you know I love you. Won’t you come a little way to meet me? I’m so sure you can trust me. I’m so sure we could be happy. Just let your mind rest. Let yourself go a little.” Her mood was chilling his. He tried to gather up the shreds of the impetuosity that had first driven him to embrace her. “Let’s not talk,” he said again, almost plaintively, “Can’t we just--rest in each other?” “But why are you afraid of talk?” she protested. He dropped his hands from her shoulders. “Have I been afraid? Haven’t we talked on every conceivable subject? Haven’t we said enough to understand each other perfectly?” “Then--” “Margaret, dear, we’re at it again. This is what I protest--dragging argument into every natural emotion. I don’t want to be mind to your mind to-night. I don’t want to reason or even think--I just want to be man to your woman and caress you without thought.” But the verve had gone out of his words and as it went she seemed to regain her confidence. He made a last attempt to bring back his spirit. But his embrace seemed to stiffen her. He withdrew his arm and sat tapping on the steering wheel. “When will you marry me, Margaret?” No impetuousness in his voice now, no romance. It met hers in calmness. “I don’t know.” “You must know. I can’t stand it any longer. You must or you must drive me away. There’s no sense in further talk. You know I’ll exact nothing but the right to be near you. But I must have that. I must know. It isn’t as if I were younger and could rebound from one love into another. You’ve got me. I don’t think of anything else. You color every bit of work I do--every bit of thinking. I’ll trust to your terms. I’ve spent weeks building up my theory of marriage to suit your desires and visions. I don’t want to play upon your sympathies but I’ve got to have you, Margaret--or not.” He sounded very discouraged, very humble, very desperate. “I think I’d disappoint you, Walter.” The pity in her voice and her own discouragement made him turn to her again but she held out a hand to meet his and he stayed, letting her clasp his hand loosely.