“Wait,” said I. And I made a tactless, a stupid beginning: “You can’t deny that you do not love him.” She turned coldly away and walked on, I following. “I think I’ll not stop for tea,” she said. “Will you hail the first taxi we meet?” “You are offended--Mary?” I said. What a blundering fool love does make of a man!--unless he makes a fool of it. She shook her head. “No--not offended. But when a subject comes up about which we may not talk there is nothing to do but drop it.” In my desperation I reached for the right chord and struck it. “Do you know,” said I, “why I left the yacht abruptly?” She halted, gave me a swift, frightened glance. The color flooded her face, then fled. “Yes--that was why,” said I. “And--I’ve come as soon as I could.” “Oh, why, why didn’t you _tell_ me?” cried she. Then, before I could answer, “I don’t mean that. I understand.” Then, with a wild look around, “_What_ am I saying?” “I’ve come for you, Mary,” I went on. “And you are not going to rush into folly a second time--a greater folly. For--you do not love him--and you will care for me. You are right, we can’t discuss him--you and him. But we can, and must, discuss you and me.” “I shall not see you again,” said she, looking at me with tranquil eyes that would have daunted me had I not known her so well, understood her so well--which is only another way of saying, had I not loved her so well. “Why have you been seeing me day after day, when you knew that I loved you----” “I did not know it,” replied she. “I did not think I could move you in the least--beyond a friendly liking.” An inflection in her voice made me suddenly realize. “You came because it made you happy to come!” I cried triumphantly. I caught her hand. “You do care, Mary!” She drew her hand away resolutely. “I shall keep my promise,” she said coldly. “I wish to hear no more.” “You will not keep your promise. If necessary I’ll go to him and tell him--and he’ll release you.” She gave me a look that withered. “You--do a cowardly thing like that!” “No,” said I. “But _you_ will ask him to release you. You have no right to marry him. And I--I love you--and must live my life with you, or--I can think of nothing more futile and empty than life without you. And your life--would it not be futile and empty, Mary, if you tried to live it without me, when we might have been together? Together!--you and I! Mary, my love!” “Why do you say those things, Godfrey?” she cried passionately. “To make me wretched? To make it harder for me to do what I must?” “To make it impossible for you to do what you must not. Marry a man you don’t love--marry him when you love another! You’d be doing him the worst possible injury. No matter how much he loves you, he can recover from the blow of losing you. But the day to day horror of such a loveless marriage would destroy you both. He is a sensitive man. He would feel it, in spite of all your efforts to pretend. You--pretend! You could not do it.”