Angela was half fainting. Holding her up, he steered as he could, slowing down now lest the jumping springs of the car should break. He drove away from, not toward, Mrs. Gaylor's house. He would not take Angela back to Carmen even for a moment. Yet as she was alone and swooning she could not go to his house. He caught at the idea of a quick run into Bakersfield in search of a doctor. But when he saw at last that Angela was slowly coming to herself, drawing deep, sobbing breaths, her eyelashes trembling on wet cheeks, he eased the car down on a quiet stretch of road, under the shade of young walnut-trees and oaks. There he stopped for a while, in the cool tree shadows. "You're safe, precious one, safe," he whispered, as he might have soothed a child. "There's nothing to be afraid of now." Angela opened her eyes and looked at him through her lashes as she had never looked before. "I--thought of you then," she murmured. "I thought of you--I wanted you. Just when I expected to die." Her eyes, her voice, her words, broke down the last barrier that held him back; and he would have been more or less than man if he had not poured out, in a torrent, all his love and worship in a flood of words. "Darling--heart's dearest--do you think I'd have let you die so? I must have felt--I must have heard you call me. It had to be. I'd feel a thought of yours across the world," he stammered. "If I were in my grave and you wanted me, my spirit would come back into my body to serve you. How I love you, love you, dear! It can't be that such love can leave you cold. I'm not of your world, but come down to mine, or help me to come into yours. Give me a little love, just a little love, and I'll give you my soul." "Don't--oh, don't!" faltered Angela. She raised her head from his arm and sat up, leaning away from him. "I know I'm a wretch!" he said. "I ought to be shot for speaking of myself, when you're all broken to pieces. The words came. I've been keeping them back day by day, but that's no excuse. Forgive me!" "No--you mustn't use the word forgive--when you've just saved my life! It's only this--I can't let you go on." "Not now. I know. But some time----" "No. Not ever. Don't think I couldn't care for you. It isn't that. I could. I----But I _mustn't_ care. It's all impossible! I ought to have told you long ago. The only thing is to forget--for us both. Oh, if I could have kept you for my friend! But I feel now that's impossible, too. After this, we can't be friends, can we?" "No, we can't be friends," he echoed, very pale, suddenly weary and almost broken by the strain he had endured. "But are you sure----" "Sure. The more I care, the more sure. Oh, Nick, my dear, my dear, I wish you had let me die!" He looked at her strangely and very sadly, after his first start and stiffening of the muscles. "Would that have been better than caring for me?" he asked in a voice so low that she could just catch the words.