"You didn't try to conceal it. I'd not have ventured to say and do the things I said and did if I hadn't felt that we cared for each other. But, so long as you were leading that fatuous life and dreaming those foolish dreams, I knew we could never be happy." "That is true--oh, SO true," replied she. "But now--you have tried, and that has made a woman of you. And you have failed, and that has made you ready to be a wife--to be happy in the quiet, private ways." She was silent. "I can make enough for us both--as much as we will need or want--as much as you please, if you aren't too extravagant. And I can do it easily. It's making little sums--a small income--that's hard in this ridiculous world. Let's marry, go to California or Europe for several months, then come back here and live like human beings." She was silent. Block after block they walked along, as if neither had anything especial in mind, anything worth the trouble of speech. Finally he said: "Well?" "I can't answer--yet," said she. "Not to-day--not till I've thought." She glanced quickly at him. Over his impassive face, so beautifully regular and, to her, so fascinating, there passed a quick dark shadow, and she knew that he was suffering. He laughed quietly, his old careless, indifferent laugh. "Oh, yes, you can answer," said he. "You have answered." She drew in her breath sharply. "You have refused." "Why do you say that, Donald?" she pleaded. "To hesitate over a proposal is to refuse," said he with gentle raillery. "A man is a fool who does not understand and sheer off when a woman asks for time." "You know that I love you," she cried. "I also know that you love something else more. But it's finished. Let's talk about something else." "Won't you let me tell you why I hesitate?" begged she. "It doesn't matter." "But it does. Yes, I do refuse, Donald. I'll never marry you until I am independent. You said a while ago that what I've been through had made a woman of me. Not yet. I'm only beginning. I'm still weak--still a coward. Donald, I must and will be free." He looked full at her, with a strange smile in his brilliant eyes. Said he, with obvious intent to change the subject: "Mrs. Brindley's very unhappy that you haven't been to see her." "When you asked me to marry you, the only reason I almost accepted was because I want someone to support me. I love you--yes. But it is as one loves before one has given oneself and has lived the same life with another. In the ordinary sense, it's love that I feel. But--do you understand me, dearest?--in another sense, it's only the hope of love, the belief that love will come." He stopped short and looked at her, his eyes alive with the stimulus of a new and startling idea.