“Dear Anne,” began Richard with an effort that Anne was sobbing too hard to see, “you cannot marry me, my beloved, because I will not marry you! See to what shocking lengths you drive me! I am blind, indeed, for I did not for an instant suspect that you loved Kit. Thank heaven little Anne healed that form of blindness! I have often felt that you did not fully love me, dear, but I set down much of your reserve to your natural reticence, your innate shrinking from a lover’s arms. I knew that a great love, such as mine was for you, would rise at flood and break down such barriers, but, though I saw that you did not love me like that, I thought that you loved me so much that the tide of it would rise to its flood in you. I loved to think that I should write my name on this white page indelibly. I did not dream that you loved someone else. This justifies me, so forgive me, Anne, for the pain I stupidly caused you.” “Richard, kill me if you must, but not with such words!” cried Anne, turning to hide her face in her hands on the back of the garden bench. “Will you not listen to me? I want to marry you. I want to marry you! And you were right; I shall love you best. Just as now I hold you higher than any one else, so I shall love you best. I have never for an instant thought of breaking my word to you. I had no more idea of Kit’s feeling for me than you had. Nor did I realize that I cared for him. It was a strange revelation of unsuspected feeling on both sides that overtook us. I have not listened to him, have not dallied with this madness. And Kit is honourable. He was tempted to take his own good, but he is a man. When he considered, he knew that it must be you, not he. He is gone, gone forever. Time will cure him. He has done right and I’ve no fear but that he will be happy. So let us try to put it out of our minds; let us pretend that we had an ugly dream. We are awake now; the dream is over. Richard, dearest Richard, forgive me! Can’t you forgive me and let the dream go by?”