And so, next day, when our friends sallied forth for a walk, and it fell out, partly through the manœuvering of Alice, that Mary and the Don began to be farther and farther isolated from the rest, her heart began to beat so quick and hard that utterance became difficult. Her companion, too, seemed preoccupied, and their conversation became a tissue of the baldest commonplace. At last he stood still, and with eyes fixed upon the ground, was silent,—silent for an age, as it seemed to Mary. At last he looked up. “Mary,” he began,—it was the first time he had ever addressed her thus, and her heart gave a quick beat of pleasure,—“Mary, there is something I must say to you, and we could not find a better opportunity. There is the Argo; let us take seats in it.” She assented in silence and with a sudden sinking of the heart; for there rushed before her mind, in tumultuous throng, all the dreadful possibilities of the coming revelation. “Is not this,” said she, as she took her seat upon one of the benches, “the first visit that you and I have made to the ‘Fateful’?” “‘The Fateful,’” she repeated to herself. Was the name ominous? And she strove to hide, beneath a careless smile, the deep agitation that she felt. “Do you know, I feel that I have a right to quarrel with you? For I alone of all the girls have never been honored by you with an invitation to visit the Argo. It almost looks like an intentional slight. Was it?” She was talking at random, hardly knowing what she said; anxious only to put off for a few brief moments the explanation which she had suddenly begun to look upon with genuine terror. It is thus that, when, with swollen cheek, we have taken our seat in his elaborate chair, we strive to delay the pitiless dentist (while he, adamantine soul, selects from his jingling store the instrument most diabolically suited to our case), happy with a happiness all too briefly bright, if he will but turn and admit that the day is fine. [Jack’s mocking pencil, again! I protest. _Alice._] “Yes, it was intentional.” She looked up. “Well, not a slight, of course, but intentional.” “Why? I cannot imagine.” But she did imagine why, though but vaguely. “Ah! I am glad you ask that question. It enables me to begin.” But he did not begin. He knit his brows instead, and fixed his eyes in perplexity upon the shining sand. “I hardly know what to say to you.” “Then don’t say anything,” exclaimed she, eagerly. “Don’t say anything?” “Well, not about _that_!” “About _that_?” “Well, you know—” “Yes, I dare say we are both thinking about the same thing.” “‘Great minds will,’ etc., you know—” “Say loving hearts.” And he took her hand. “Yes, I admit that I have studiously avoided finding myself alone with you.” “Were you afraid of me? I am very little!” “I was afraid of myself; yesterday proved how justly so.” “Do you regret yesterday?” “I am afraid I do not. But I ought to. I had no right to tell you I loved you.”