"But Vivian—" he pleaded, trying to restrain the intensity of his feeling; "men get over these things. They do, really. It's not so awful as you seem to think. It's very common. And I'm nearly well. I was going to wait a year or two yet—to make sure—. Vivian! I'd cut my hand off before I'd hurt you!"
There was real agony in his voice, and her heart smote her; but there was something besides her heart ruling the girl now.
"I am sorry—I'm very sorry," she said dully. "But I will not marry you."
"You'll throw me over—just for that! Oh, Vivian don't—you can't. I'm no worse than other men. It seems so terrible to you just because you're so pure and white. It's only what they call—wild oats, you know. Most men do it."
She shook her head.
"And will you punish me—so cruelly—for that? I can't live without you, Vivian—I won't!"
"It is not a question of punishing you, Morton," she said gently. "Nor myself. It is not the sin I am considering. It is the consequences!"
He felt a something high and implacable in the gentle girl; something he had never found in her before. He looked at her with despairing eyes. Her white grace, her stately little ways, her delicate beauty, had never seemed so desirable.
"Good God, Vivian. You can't mean it. Give me time. Wait for me. I'll be straight all the rest of my life—I mean it. I'll be true to you, absolutely. I'll do anything you say—only don't give me up!"
She felt old, hundreds of years old, and as remote as far mountains.