She would have recalled it an hour afterwards, but it was too late; and that evening she received an answer, to the effect that he would arrive in the morning. She spent a sleepless night imagining his coming, and a score of different ways in which she would meet him. She would throw herself at his feet and beg him not to torture her; she would array herself in her newest gown and fascinate him in the good old way; she would climb once more upon the pinnacle of her pride and compel him to humble himself before her. In the morning she drove to meet him, together with a cousin who had come on the same train. She never stood a worse social ordeal than that drive and the luncheon with the family. But at last they were alone together, and sat gazing at each other with eyes full of bewilderment and pain. “Sylvia,” said Frank, finally, “you do not look happy.” “Why should I be happy?” she asked. There was a pause. “Listen,” he said. “Can we not deal honestly with each other—openly and sincerely, for once. Surely that is the best way, Sylvia—no matter how much it hurts.” “I am ready to do it,” she replied. “You don’t have to spare my feelings,” he went on. “I know all you have to contend with, and I sha’n’t blame you. The one thing I can’t bear is to be played with, to be lured by false hopes, to drag on and on, tormented by uncertainty.” She was gazing at him, bewildered. “Why do you say all that, Frank?” she cried. “Why should I not say it?” he asked; and again they stared at each other. Suddenly she broke out, in a voice full of anguish, “Frank, this is what I want to know—answer me this! Do you love me?” “Do I love you?” he echoed. “Yes,”—and with greater intensity, “I want you to be honest about it!” “Honey!” he said, his voice trembling, “it’s the question of whether I’m allowed to love you. It’s so terrible to me—I can’t stand the uncertainty.” She cried again, “But do you _want_ to love me?” She heard his voice break, she saw the emotion that was shaking him, and with a sudden sob she was in his arms. “Oh, Frank, Frank!” she exclaimed. “What _have_ we been doing to each other?” And so at last the fog of misunderstanding was lifted. “Sweetheart,” he exclaimed, “what could you have been thinking?” “I thought you had stopped loving me because I had been too bold, because I had been unwomanly.” “Why, Sylvia, you must be mad! Have I not been hungry for your love?” “Oh, tell me that I can love you!” she wailed. “Tell me that you won’t grow tired of me if I love you!” He clasped her in his arms and covered her lips with kisses; he soothed her like a frightened child. She was free now to sob out her grief, to tell him what she had felt throughout all these months of misery. “Oh, why didn’t you come to me like this before?” she asked. “But, Sylvia,” he answered, “how could I know? I saw you letting another man make love to you——” “But, Frank, that was only a joke!” “But how could I know that?”