"Going--not going away? Why? Why should you go?" I couldn't keep appeal out of my tone, and I could see him brace himself to resist. I think I knew that, if he could, he meant to sacrifice our love to John and Milly. I think I had seen this earlier; but I had thought the struggle past when he came to me and begged me not to leave the city. But perhaps, this time, I didn't understand him; perhaps I was simply confused by his distress. I thought he tried in vain to look away from me. Then he moved a step nearer, slowly, as if reluctant. His face was haggard. "Tell me why you are going." I scarcely knew I spoke. It was as if some will independent of my own had dictated the words. Yet I did not try to hide my heart's wish; it was too late. He was my life, and in all but words--yes, and in words even--I told him so. We had confessed our love. It was his right. "Listen," I said. "If anything is--is wrong, I must know it. I--I _must_ know it. Tell me. I must know everything. Ned, you must tell me." A vein stood out upon his forehead, but still he gazed silently at me. After a time he said hoarsely:-- "I'm going because for your beauty I have thrown away the love of the woman I was to marry. For you I have lost her, and yet--I loved Milly. My God, I love her!" Once he had begun, the words came with fierce swiftness. He seemed to mean them to sting, to cut, to stab. It was hard not to cry out with the pain of hearing them. All that I understood was that he meant to wrench himself from me with a force that should make the breach impassable. This I felt, though still his eyes gave the lie to his words; his eyes that said I was dear as life to him. "Don't think I blame you for the inevitable," he went on. "You do not know, and I pray God you may never understand, how contemptible I have been. And don't think me a fool; I'm not crying for the moon, nor dreaming that a glorious creature like you--ah, you're as far above me as the stars above the sea--to you I have been only--" "Don't speak like that!" I cried. White-faced, I stared at him, tremblingly, pleadingly. There was a cloud in my brain that seemed to be coming down; it threatened to smother me--but I held fast to my courage. It was life itself for which I was fighting. "You have--you are--" The truth was at my lips, but he interrupted:-- "I know you have reason to hate me, for I have done you wrong. Because of my folly, your place here is not what it was; and you love Burke, whom I have wronged, as I love Milly, whom I have estranged. I must keep away from you. You can see that. For the sake of all, I must keep away from you." The cloud was choking me, but I put forth my strength. "You have done nothing wrong; I do not--" Words failed me. I hadn't the temerity to speak John's name. And Ned--could he not see?--only stood there saying:--