"Mean?" said I, for once feeling no resentment at her manner. "By leaving--this way," she explained with impatience. "You heard Mr. Roebuck's telegram," said I. "You are angry with me," she persisted. "No, Carlotta," said I. "I was, but I am not. As soon as I saw what you wished, I was grateful, not angry." "What did I wish?" "To let me know as gently and kindly as you could that you purposed to end our engagement. And I guess you are right. We do not seem to care for each other as we ought if we--" "You misunderstood me," she said, pale and with flashing eyes, and in such a struggle with her emotions that she could say no more. If I had not seen that only her pride and her vanity were engaged in the struggle, and her heart not at all, I think I should have abandoned my comfortable self-deception that my own pride forbade discussion with her. As it was, I was able to say: "Don't try to spare me, Carlotta, I'm glad you had the courage and the good sense not to let us both drift into irrevocable folly. I thank you." I opened the door into the hall. "Let us talk no more about it. We could say to each other only the things that sting or the things that stab. Let us be friends. You must give me your friendship, at least." I took her hand. She looked strangely at me. "You want me to humble myself, to crawl at your feet and beg your pardon," said she between her teeth. "But I shan't." She snatched away her hand and threw back her head. "I wish nothing but what is best for us both," said I. "But let us not talk of it now--when neither of us is calm." "You don't care for me!" she cried. "Do _you_ love _me_?" I rejoined. Her eyes shifted. I waited for her reply and, when it did not come, I said: "Let us go to breakfast." "I'll not go in just now," she answered, in a quiet tone, a sudden and strange shift from that of the moment before. And she let me take her hand, echoed my good-by, and made no further attempt to detain me. That was a gloomy breakfast despite my efforts to make my own seeming of good-humor permeate to the others. Mrs. Ramsay hid a somber face behind the coffee-urn; Ed ate furiously, noisily, choking every now and then. He drove me to the station; his whole body was probably as damp from his emotions as were his eyes and his big friendly hand. The train got under way; I drew a long breath. I was free.