She rose and started toward the door, but Lynn kept her back. The starlight showed him her face, white and troubled. "Sweetheart," he said, "listen. Just a moment, dear--that isn't much to ask, is it? If it was wrong to write the letters, then I ask you to forgive me, but every word was true. I love you, Iris--I love you with all my heart." "With all your heart," she repeated, scornfully. "You have no heart!" "Iris," he said, unsteadily, "what do you mean?" "This," she cried, in a passion. "You have no more feeling than the ground beneath your feet! Haven't I seen, haven't I known? Aunt Peace died, and you did not care--you only thought it was unpleasant. You play like a machine, a mountebank. Tricks with the violin--tricks with words! And yet you dare to say you love me!" "Iris! Darling!" cried Lynn, stung to the quick. "Don't!" "Once for all I will have my say. To-morrow I go out of your house forever. I have no right here, no place. I am an intruder, and I am going away. You will never see me again, never as long as you live. You, a machine, a clod, a trickster, a thing without a heart--you shall not insult me again!" White to the lips, trembling like a leaf, Iris shook herself free and ran up to her room. Lynn drew a long, shuddering breath. "God!" he whispered, clenching his hands tightly. "God!" XVI Afraid of Life She kept her word. To Mrs. Irving she merely said that she had already trespassed too long upon their hospitality, and that she thought it best to go away. She had talked with Herr Kaufmann, and he had advised her to go to the city and have her voice trained. Yes, she would write, and would always think of them kindly. Lynn, who had passed the first sleepless night of his life, went to the train with her, but few words were spoken. Iris was cool, dignified, and cruelly formal. An immeasurable distance lay between them, and one, at least, made no effort to lessen it. They had only a few minutes to wait, and, just as the train came in sight, Lynn bent over her. "Iris," he said, unsteadily, "if you ever want me, will you promise me that you will let me know?" "Yes," she replied, with an incredulous laugh, "if I ever want you, I will let you know." "I will go to you," said Lynn, struggling for his self-control, "from the very end of the world. Just send me the one word: 'Come.' And let me thank you now for all the happiness you have given me, and for the memory of you, which I shall have in my heart for always." "You are quite welcome," she returned, frigidly. "You--" but the roar of the train mercifully drowned her words. The sun still shone, the birds did not cease their singing. Outwardly, the world was just as fair, even though Iris had gone. Lynn walked away blindly, no longer dull, but keenly alive to his hurt.