"I know, I know--but I can't help it, my darling. I love you so much. Nothing else matters. I can't help telling you. I looked for you in church this morning and when I couldn't find you, it was so hard to go on. I didn't care, after that. It's that way always. With you beside me--it would be so different. Can't you ... don't you feel ... any different?" She shook her head sadly. It was hard to refuse Imrie--a million times harder than all the rest. That he loved her truly, there was no doubt in her mind. Of the others, she was not so sure. But she did not love him, and it hurt tremendously to tell him so. She could not tell why. He always begged her to give a reason, and she never could. He was a good man, and an attractive man. There was nothing lacking. As candid old Mrs. Waring had told her, "Don't be a silly, my dear. You could not possibly do better." She believed that, too. Imrie was as near her ideal as she had ever ventured to formulate one. And yet.... [Illustration: It was hard to refuse Imrie--a million times harder than all the rest] "But I thought ... the last time ..." he was saying. "It seemed as if ... there was more hope. And now ... it seems as if there was less. Why, my dearest? Have you changed? What have I done? What haven't I done? You seem further away from me now than ever ... won't you ever come to me ... is it always to be 'the desire of the moth for the star' ... please speak to me, darling ... please...." His voice broke under the stress of his emotion. Never had she seen him so moved. She marvelled at it. She had a turbulent wish to ask him why he never lost himself like that in his pulpit--and immediately afterwards wondered where such an outrageous, irreverent thought could have come from. That was not like her. But she knew very well who it was like. "Is there--someone else?" The question made her start guiltily. She was glad that her face was in shadow. "Was there?" she asked herself. Then the absurdity of the thought made her smile to herself. "No," she said firmly. "There is no one else." "Then perhaps...?" His voice trailed off. "Yes," she said mechanically, as one who answered a question without hearing it, "perhaps." They were silent, then, for a long time. Finally Imrie held out his hand. His face, clear in the moonlight, was drawn and seemed pallid. He was visibly affected. "I'm sorry, Judith," he said, with a perceptible tremor in his voice, "but I can't help it. Sometime--perhaps...." "Yes." Her eyes filled with tears again, and she dared not trust herself to speak. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck and comfort him. But she would do it as she would comfort Roger--and he would know that. So she held out her hand. "I'm sorry, too, Arnold. But let us be the good friends we have always been, anyway." She regretted that, as she saw him wince. It was not friendship that he wanted. But she forced herself to finish in that key. It was safest.