"In the case I was considering--the man is sure of that." "Then he would get over his unfortunate love in time--wouldn't he? Ill-fated love does not often last forever. Life--life is more merciful than that, isn't it?" It was his chance with her; he realized that she was giving it to him--giving it to him understandingly and deliberately. He had only to agree that an "ill-fated" love--that his ill-fated love--would die at last. But he could not take his chance like that. He could not be less than honest with her. "He would never get over it altogether," he said. "The woman he could not marry would always be--dearest to him. And, granting that, would it be fair for him to ask another woman to take what was left of--of his affection? Would it be fair to ask her to take--a spoiled life?" "She might feel that what was left of his life was well worth having--the woman he _could_ marry. She might feel that--even if he had suffered much, missed what he supremely wanted--his life need not be spoiled after all. She might feel that she could prevent its being spoiled. If he were frank with her, and she felt like that about it, I think it would be fair for him to marry her--perfectly honorable and fair." "It could not be happiness for her," argued Peter. "Perhaps not. Perhaps she could do without happiness." "That would require a great love of her," said Peter gravely, "a great love for a man who could not give a great love in return." "Yes," she agreed, her voice very low now, but as clear and steady as ever, "yes, it would require a great love from her. But it is not impossible to find a woman who can feel a great love without hope of a full return." She was still in her sheltering shadow, but upon Peter's end of the garden seat the moonlight, unchecked by the trees, streamed white and strong. She looked into his face, fully revealed to her now, and she realized, before he spoke, that he was going to refuse her sacrifice; she realized it because she saw in his face a deeper emotion for her than he had ever shown before. He loved her not enough--and yet too much!--to marry her. She saw that and was prepared for his next words. "To such a woman the man I have in mind could not give less than his best," he said. And there was no longer any question, any hesitancy in his tone. "To one so generous no man could be ungenerous--I should have known that! Perhaps," he went on, with a note of distress and apology, "perhaps such things should not be talked about. Perhaps it is--humiliating----" "To me the truth could never be humiliating," she answered, with quick reassurance. "Then it is best to speak it?" he pleaded, as if for self-justification. "Then it is best to speak it, after all? For it does make things--plain; it does show one the right, the decent course." "It's best to speak it," she assented kindly; and she held out her hand to him.