"You doubt my love then?" he said, and his voice sounded strange to her, almost cold. "You think my love is unworthy of you? You have--lost faith in me?" She was silent. "Is it so?" he persisted. "Tell me the truth. I may as well know it. You think--because I am not what Capper would, term a thoroughbred--that I am incapable of love. Isn't that so?" But still she did not answer him. Only, being free, she turned to the garden-seat and sank down upon it, her arms stretched along the back, her head bowed low. He began to pace up and down like a caged animal, pausing each time he passed her, and each time moving on again as if invisibly urged. At last very suddenly he stopped with his back to her, and stood like a statue in the moonlight. She did not look at him. She was too near the end of her strength. Her heart was beating very slowly, like a run-down watch. She felt like an old, old woman, utterly tired of life. And she was cold--cold from head to foot. Minutes passed. Somewhere away in the night an owl hooted, and Nap turned his head sharply, as one accustomed to take note of every sound. A while longer he stood, seeming to listen, every limb alert and tense, then swiftly he wheeled and gazed full at the drooping woman's figure on the bench. Slowly his attitude changed. Something that was bestial went out of it; something that was human took its place. Quietly at length he crossed the moonlit space that intervened between them, reached her, knelt beside her. "Anne," he said, and all her life she remembered the deep melancholy of his voice, "I am a savage--a brute--a devil. But I swear that I have it in me to love you--as you deserve to be loved. Won't you have patience with me? Won't you give me a chance--the only chance I've ever had--of getting above myself, of learning what love can be? Won't you trust me with your friendship once more? Believe me, I'm not all brute." She thrilled like a dead thing waked to life. Her dread of the man passed away like an evil dream, such was the magic he had for her. She slipped one of her cold hands down to him. He caught it, bowed his head upon it, pressed it against his eyes, then lifted his face and looked up at her. "It is not the end then? You haven't given me up in disgust?" And she answered him in the only way possible to her. "I will be your friend still, only--only let there never again be any talk of love between us. That alone will end our friendship. Can I trust you? Nap, can I?" He jerked back his head at the question, and showed her his face in the full moonlight. And she saw that his eyes were still and passionless, unfathomable as a mountain pool. "If you can bring yourself--if you will stoop--to kiss me," he said, "I think you will know."