“I didn’t believe you. I ought to have believed you. But it is not only that. It is that, years ago, he adopted me with that view. He brought me up for that purpose. He has done everything for me on that condition. I was to pay my debt and be his wife. I never dreamed of it. And now at last that I have grown up and he makes his claim, I can’t, I can’t!” “You can’t, eh? So you have left him!” “Of course I have left him. It was the only thing to do. It was give and take. I cannot give what he wants, and I cannot give back what I have received. But I can refuse to take more.” Fenton sat on the edge of his desk, swinging his leg. He folded his arms and whistled a lively air, looking at Nora with a brightened eye. “I see, I see,” he said. Telling her tale had deepened her color and added to her beauty. “So here I am,” she went on. “I know that I am dreadfully alone, that I am homeless and helpless. But it’s a heaven to living as I have lived. I have been content all these days, because I thought I could content him. But we never understood each other. He has given me immeasurable happiness; I know that; and he knows that I know it; don’t you think he knows, George?” she cried, eager even in her reserve. “I would have made him a sister, a friend. But I don’t expect you to understand all this. It’s enough that I am satisfied. I am satisfied,” the poor girl repeated vehemently. “I have no illusions about it now; you can trust me, George. I mean to earn my own living. I can teach; I am a good musician; I want above all things to work. I shall look for some employment without delay. All this time I might have been writing to Miss Murray. But I was sick with impatience to see you. To come to you was the only thing I could do; but I shall not trouble you for long.” Fenton seemed to have but half caught the meaning of this impassioned statement, for simple admiration of her exquisite purity of purpose was fast getting the better of his caution. He gave his knee a loud slap. “Nora,” he said, “you’re a wonderful young lady!” For a moment she was silent and thoughtful. “For mercy’s sake,” she cried at last, “say nothing to make me feel that I have done this thing too easily, too proudly and recklessly! Really, I am anything but brave. I am full of doubts and fears.” “You’re uncommonly handsome; that’s one sure thing!” said Fenton. “I would rather marry you than lose you. Poor Mr. Lawrence!” Nora turned away in silence and walked to the window, which grew to her eyes, for the moment, as the “glimmering square” of the poet. “I thought you loved him so!” he added, abruptly. Nora turned back with an effort and a blush. “If he were to come to you now,” he went on, “and go down on his knees and beg and plead and rave and all that sort of thing, would you still refuse him?” She covered her face with her hands. “O George, George!” she cried. “He will follow you, of course. He will not let you go so easily.”