Patricia shivered here. "But none of us is sure of living for a month. You've shown me a glimpse of what life might be; don't let me sink back into the old, humdrum existence from a foolish sense of honor! I tell you, I should go mad! I mean to have my fling while I can get it. And I mean to have it with you, Jack--just you! I don't fear poverty. You could write some more wonderful books. I could work, too, Jack dear. I--I could teach music--or take in washing--or something, anyway. Lots of women support themselves, you know. Oh, Jack, we would be so happy! Don't be honorable and brave and disagreeable, Jack dear!" For a moment Charteris was silent. The nostrils of his beak-like nose widened a little, and a curious look came into his face. He discovered something in the sand that interested him. "After all," he demanded, slowly, "is it necessary--to go away--to be happy?" "I don't understand." Her hand lifted from his arm; then quick remorse smote her, and it fluttered back, confidingly. Charteris rose to his feet. "It is, doubtless, a very spectacular and very stirring performance to cast your cap over the wind-mill in the face of the world; but, after all, is it not a bit foolish, Patricia? Lots of people manage these things--more quietly." "Oh, Jack!" Patricia's face turned red, then white, and stiffened in a sort of sick terror. She was a frightened Columbine in stone. "I thought you cared for me--really, not--that way." Patricia rose and spoke with composure. "I think I'll go back to the house, Mr. Charteris. It's a bit chilly here. You needn't bother to come." Then Mr. Charteris laughed--a choking, sobbing laugh. He raised his hands impotently toward heaven. "And to think," he cried, "to think that a man may love a woman with his whole heart--with all that is best and noblest in him--and she understand him so little!" "I do not think I have misunderstood you," Patricia said, in a crisp voice. "Your proposition was very explicit. I--am sorry. I thought I had found one thing in the world which I would regret to leave--" "And you really believed that I could sully the great love I bear you by stooping to--that! You really believed that I would sacrifice to you my home life, my honor, my prospects--all that a man can give--without testing the quality of your love! You did not know that I spoke to try you--you actually did not know! Eh, but yours is a light nature, Patricia! I do not reproach you, for you are only as your narrow Philistine life has made you. Yet I had hoped better things of you, Patricia. But you, who pretend to care for me, have leaped at your first opportunity to pain me--and, if it be any comfort to you, I confess you have pained me beyond words." And he sank down on the log, and buried his face in his hands. She came to him--it was pitiable to see how she came to him, laughing and sobbing all in one breath--and knelt humbly by his side, and raised a grieved, shamed, penitent face to his.