When the evening was nearing its end she was suddenly brought to her senses by the realization that she was strolling down one of the ilex walks with Paul Dessart at her side. She had been rattling on unheedingly, and she scarcely knew how they had come there. Her first instinct was one of self-preservation; she felt what was coming, and she wanted to ward it off. Anything to get back to the crowd again! She paused and looked back at the lighted villa, listening to the sound of the violins rising above the murmur of voices and laughter. For a moment she almost felt impelled to turn and run. Since she had stopped, Paul stopped perforce, and looked at her questioningly. ‘I—I think we’d better go back,’ she stammered. ‘This dance is almost over, and——’ ‘We won’t go back just yet,’ he returned. ‘I want to talk to you. You owe me a few moments, Marcia. Come here and sit down and listen to what I have to say.’ He turned into the little circle by the fountain and motioned toward a garden seat. Marcia dropped limply upon it and looked at him with an air of pleading. There was no circumlocution; both knew that the time had come when everything must be said, and Paul went to the point. ‘Well, Marcia, are you going to marry me?’ Marcia sat opening and shutting her fan nervously, trying to frame an answer that would not hurt him. ‘I’ve been patient; I haven’t bothered you. You surely ought to know your own mind now. You’ve had a month—it hasn’t been exactly a happy month for me. Tell me, please, Marcia. Don’t keep me waiting any longer.’ ‘Oh, Paul!’ she said, looking back with half-frightened eyes. ‘It’s all a mistake.’ ‘A mistake! What do you mean? Marcia, I trusted you. You can’t throw me over now. Tell me quickly!’ ‘Forgive me, Paul,’ she faltered miserably. ‘I—I was mistaken. I thought, that day in the cloister——’ He realized that, somehow, she was slipping away from him and that he must fight to get her back. He bent toward her and took her hand, with his glowing, eager face close to hers, his words coming so fast that he fairly stuttered. ‘Yes, that day in the cloister. You did care for me then, didn’t you, Marcia—just a little bit? You let me hope—you told me there wasn’t any other man—you’ve been kind to me ever since. That’s what I’ve lived on this whole month—the memory of that afternoon. Tell me what the trouble is—don’t let anything come between us. We’ve had such a happy spring—let it keep on being happy. We’ve lived in Arcady, Marcia—you and I. Why should we ever leave it? Why must we go back—why not go forward? If you cared that afternoon, you can care now. I haven’t changed. Tell me why you hesitate. I don’t want to force you to make up your mind, but this uncertainty is simply hell.’