“You don’t believe me!” she cried. “No wonder. But it’s so, Godfrey. I want your love--I want _you_. Won’t you--won’t you--take me--back?” Her voice sounded pitifully sick and weak; and when I looked at her I could not but see that to refuse to humor her would be to endanger her life. I said: “Edna, this is an utter surprise for me--about the last thing I expected. I can’t grasp it--so suddenly. I--I-- Do you really mean it?” “I really mean it, dear,” she said earnestly. It was evident she, in her secret heart, was taking it for granted that her news would be welcome to me; that all she had to do in order to win me back as her devoted, enslaved husband was to announce her willingness to come. I have often marveled at this peculiar vanity of women--their deep, abiding belief in the power of their own charms--the all but impossibility of a man’s ever convincing a woman that he does not love her. They say hope is the hardiest of human emotions. I doubt it. I think vanity, especially the sex vanity both of men and of women, is far and away hardier than even hope. I saw she was assuming I would be delighted, deeply grateful, ardently responsive as soon as I should grasp the dazzling glad tidings. And she so ill and weak that I dared not speak at all frankly to her. She stretched out her hand for mine. I slowly took it, held it listlessly. I did not know what to do--what to say. “It is so good to have you again, dear,” she murmured. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?” “I don’t understand,” I muttered, dropping her hand and standing up to gaze out over the gardens. “I am stunned.” “I’ve been cruel to you,” she said with gracious humility. “Can you ever forgive me?” “There’s nothing to forgive. But--” There I halted. “I’ll make up for it, dear,” she went on, sweetly gracious. “I’m not surprised that you are stunned. You didn’t realize how I loved you. I didn’t myself. I couldn’t believe at first when I found out.” “You are not strong enough to talk about these things to-day,” said I. “We’ll wait until----” She interrupted my hesitating speech with a laugh full of gentle gayety. “You’re quite wrong,” said she. “I’m not out of my mind. I mean it, dear--and more. Oh, we shall be _so_ happy! You’ve been far too modest about yourself. You don’t appreciate what a fascinating man you are.” I’m sure I reddened violently. I sat, rose, sat again. “You’ve given me the shock of my life,” said I, with an embarrassed laugh. “I’ll have to think this over.” I rose. “No--don’t go yet,” said she, with the graciousness of a princess granting a longer interview. “Let me tell you all about it.” “Not to-day,” I pleaded. “You must be careful. You mustn’t overtax yourself.” “Oh, but _this_ does me good. Sit near me, Godfrey, and hold my hand while I tell you.” I felt like one closeted with an insane person and compelled to humor his caprices. I obediently shifted to a seat near her and took her hand. “You could never guess how it came about,” she went on.