“They belong to you, not to me. I lied to you! Take them! Pack them!” Brows knit, puzzled, her sensitive mouth softening painfully, she opened the parcel and looked at the red boots--looked more closely, held them up to the light; for she saw on them small round stains of a paler red. Slowly she raised her eyes until they met his. His face was twisted with pain. Her own gaze grew misty. “Take them!” he cried in the same angry way. And she laid them in the trunk. He was desperately fighting himself now. And with momentary success. He said abruptly: “I'm going to buy your books myself, Sue. So just leave them there for the present.” “You, Henry!” She bit her lip. “You know I can't let you do that.” “You've got to let me!” He stood right over her now. “But you--with your library--” “I have no library.” His voice dropped here--and he stirred, walking over to the window; stared out; finally turned and said, more quietly: “Am I talking like a crazy man, Sue?” “Well, Henry--” She tried to smile. “I have always counted on your steadiness. Perhaps I've leaned too much on it.” He stood considering her and himself. Suddenly he confronted her again, raised his long arms and gripped her shoulders. “And now, Sue,” he said, and she could fed his hands trembling with the passion that she heard in his voice, “I'm failing you.” “Oh, no, Henry; I won't let you say that--” “No! And you won't say it yourself. But we both know it is true. I see it--the whole thing. You've had your girlish fling here in the Village. You were honest and natural. And you were maddeningly beautiful. We men have crowded about you, disturbed you, pressed you. Zanin was crazy about you. So was Peter. So were a lot of the others. So was I.” He felt her shoulders stir under his strong hands. Her eyelids were drooping. But he could not stop. “Everybody let it out but me. Do you know why I didn't? Because I was a coward. I haven't made love to women. Why? because I wasn't attractive to them. And I was timid. I stayed with my books and let life go by. Then I found myself drawn into the circle about you. And I lost _my_ head, too. I gave up my books---my 'library.' Do you know where that 'library' is now, Sue? At the bottom of the North River. Every book! I carried them over there myself, in parcels, with a weight in every parcel, and dropped 'em off the ferry boat. I tried to go in for reality, for what is called life. I had Peter's tailor make me some good clothes. I got a newspaper job. Held that about two weeks. Tried to ask you to marry me. Oh, yes, I did. But couldn't get away with it. Sue, I never managed even to ask you. I talked marriage--almost talked you into it--but couldn't manage to talk about myself. Until now, just when you're worn out with work, with the pressures of men, with all the desperate confusions of life, when your soul is sick for peace--that's it, isn't it?”. Very slowly her head moved. “Yes, Henry, that's it.”