They had reached, in an incredibly brief time, the corner of Park Street. "When are you leaving?" he asked, in a voice that sounded harsh in his own ears. "Come!" she said gently, "I'm not going in yet, for a while." The Park lay before them, an empty, garden filled with checquered light and shadows under the moon. He followed her across the gravel, glistening with dew, past the statue of the mute statesman with arm upraised, into pastoral stretches--a delectable country which was theirs alone. He did not take it in, save as one expression of the breathing woman at his side. He was but partly conscious of a direction he had not chosen. His blood throbbed violently, and a feeling of actual physical faintness was upon him. He was being led, helplessly, all volition gone, and the very idea of resistance became chimerical . . . . There was a seat under a tree, beside a still lake burnished by the moon. It seemed as though he could not bear the current of her touch, and yet the thought of its removal were less bearable . . . For she had put her own hand out, not shyly, but with a movement so fraught with grace, so natural that it was but the crowning bestowal. "Alison!" he cried, "I can't ask it of you. I have no right--" "You're not asking it," she answered. "It is I who am asking it." "But I have no future--I may be an outcast to-morrow. I have nothing to offer you." He spoke more firmly now, more commandingly. "Don't you see, dear, that it is just because your future as obscure that I can do this? You never would have done it, I know,--and I couldn't face that. Don't you understand that I am demanding the great sacrifice?" "Sacrifice!" he repeated. His fingers turned, and closed convulsively on hers. "Yes, sacrifice," she said gently. "Isn't it the braver thing?" Still he failed to catch her meaning. "Braver," she explained, with her wonderful courage, "braver if I love you, if I need you, if I cannot do without you." He took her in his arms, crushing her to him in his strength, in one ineffable brief moment finding her lips, inhaling the faint perfume of her smooth akin. Her lithe figure lay passively against him, in marvellous, unbelievable surrender. "I see what you mean," he said, at length, "I should have been a coward. But I could not be sure that you loved me." So near was her face that he could detect, even under the obscurity of the branches, a smile. "And so I was reduced to this! I threw my pride to the winds," she whispered. "But I don't care. I was determined, selfishly, to take happiness."