He must tell her everything, and then go. He struck a match for his cigar, to give himself a moment of arranging his words, and, as he stood shielding the light against a faintly stirring breeze, the miniature glare fell on her delicately chiseled lips and nose and chin. Her expression made him hesitate. She was very young, very innocently childlike and very happy. To tell her now would be like spoiling a little girls' party. It must be told soon, but not while the dance music was still in their ears and the waxy smell of the dance candles still in their nostrils. When he left her at Horton House, he did not at once return to the cabin. He wanted the open skies for his thoughts, and there was no hope of sleep. He retraced his steps from the road, and wandered into the old-fashioned garden. At last, he halted by the seat where he had posed her for the portrait. The moon was sinking, and the shadows of the garden wall and trees and shrubs fell in long, fantastic angles across the silvered earth. The house itself was dark except where the panes of her window still glowed. Standing between the tall stalks of the hollyhocks, he held his watch up to the moon. It was half-past two o'clock. Then, he looked up and started with surprise as he saw her standing in the path before him. At first, he thought that his imagination had projected her there. Since she had left him at the stairs, the picture she had made in her white gown and red roses had been vividly permanent, though she herself had gone. But, now, her voice was real. "Do you prowl under my windows all night, kind sir?" she laughed, happily. "I believe you must be almost as much in love as I am." The man reached forward, and seized her hand. "It's morning," he said. "What are you doing here?" "I couldn't sleep," she assured him. Then, she added serenely: "Do you suppose that the moon shines like this every night, or that I can always expect times like these? You know," she taunted, "it was so hard to get you to admit that you cared that it was an achievement. I must be appreciative, mustn't I? You are an altogether reserved and cautious person." He seized her in his arms with neither reserve nor caution. "Listen," he said in an impassioned voice, "I have no right to touch you. In five minutes, you will probably not even let me speak to you. I had no right to speak. I had no right to tell you that I loved you!" She did not draw away. She only looked into his eyes very solemnly. "You had no right?" she repeated, in a bewildered voice. "Don't you love me?" "You don't have to ask that," he avowed. "You know it. Your own heart can answer such questions." "Then," she decreed with womanlike philosophy, "you had a right to say so--because I love you, and that is settled." "No," he expostulated, "I tell you I did not have the right. You must forget it. You must forget everything." He was talking with mad impetuosity.