Her tone instantly calmed his runaway passion; he stared in amazement.
“You really feel like that?” she went on—“feel it’d be weak and wrong for you to marry me?”
“I have told you the truth—about yourself and about me,” was his reply. “You surely must see it.”
She gave a long sigh, furtive, deep. But her voice was steady as she said sadly: “Then—we must give each other up.”
“That is certainly best,” promptly assented he. “You see now that you didn’t want me, but only your own way.”
“I see that we should not be happy. I don’t understand your point of view. I suppose I’m not experienced enough. But I see you are in earnest—that it isn’t just a—a notion with you. So—” From her face waned the last glimmer of its look of the springtime. Her voice sank almost to a whisper—“I give up.”
He stood with aggressive erectness. “Then—it is settled.”
She nodded without looking at him. She could not trust herself to look. “I’ll not bother you any more,” said she.
He saw that he was victor—had gained his point. Yet never did man look or feel less the victor. He put out his hand; she let hers rest in it. “Good-by, Rix,” he said with a brave attempt at philosophic calm. “This is much better than seeing our love end in a quarrel and a scandal—isn’t it?”
“You go—in the morning?”