“What will happen to me,” he announced firmly, “is that I will plain DIE! As long as I can see you, as long as I have the chance to try and make you understand that no one can possibly love you as I do, and as long as I know I am worrying you to death, and no one else is, I still hope. I’ve no right to hope, still I do. And that one little chance keeps me alive. But Egypt! If you escape to Egypt, what hold will I have on you? You might as well be in the moon. Can you imagine me writing love-letters to a woman in the moon? Can I send American Beauty roses to the ruins of Karnak? Here I can telephone you; not that I ever have anything to say that you want to hear, but because I want to listen to your voice, and to have you ask, ‘Oh! is that YOU?’ as though you were glad it WAS me. But Egypt! Can I call up Egypt on the long-distance? If you leave me now, you’ll leave me forever, for I’ll drown myself in Lone Lake.” The day she sailed away he went to the steamer, and, separating her from her friends and family, drew her to the side of the ship farther from the wharf, and which for the moment, was deserted. Directly below a pile-driver, with rattling of chains and shrieks from her donkey-engine, was smashing great logs; on the deck above, the ship’s band was braying forth fictitious gayety, and from every side they were assailed by the raucous whistles of ferry-boats. The surroundings were not conducive to sentiment, but for the first time Polly Kirkland seemed a little uncertain, a little frightened; almost on the verge of tears, almost persuaded to surrender. For the first time she laid her hand on Ainsley’s arm, and the shock sent the blood to his heart and held him breathless. When the girl looked at him there was something in her eyes that neither he nor any other man had ever seen there. “The last thing I tell you,” she said, “the thing I want you to remember, is this, that, though I do not care--I WANT to care.” Ainsley caught at her hand and, to the delight of the crew of a passing tug-boat, kissed it rapturously. His face was radiant. The fact of parting from her had caused him real suffering, had marked his face with hard lines. Now, hope and happiness smoothed them away and his eyes shone with his love for her. He was trembling, laughing, jubilant. “And if you should!” he begged. “How soon will I know? You will cable,” he commanded. “You will cable ‘Come,’ and the same hour I’ll start toward you. I’ll go home now,” he cried, “and pack!” The girl drew away. Already she regretted the admission she had made. In fairness and in kindness to him she tried to regain the position she had abandoned. “But a change like that,” she pleaded, “might not come for years, may never come!” To recover herself, to make the words she had uttered seem less serious, she spoke quickly and lightly. “And how could I CABLE such a thing!” she protested. “It would be far too sacred, too precious. You should be able to FEEL that the change has come.”