Then the Lover went and told the Girl. He had told the father first to insure himself against any chance of yielding to what he knew the Girl would say. She said it, of course, with her dear arms round his neck.
"I won't give you up just because you're ill," she said; "why, you want me more than ever!"
"But I may die at any moment."
"So may I! And you may live to be a hundred—I'll take my chance. Oh, don't you see, too, that if there is only a little time we ought to spend it together?"
"It's impossible," he said, "it's no good. I must set my teeth and bear it. And you—I hope it won't be as hard for you as it will for me."
"But you can't give me up if I won't be given up, can you?"
His smile struck her dumb. It was more convincing than his words.
"But why?" she said presently. "Why—why—why?"
"Because I won't; because it's wrong. My father ought never to have married. He had no right to bring me into the world to suffer like this. It's a crime. And I'll not be a criminal. Not even for you—not even for you. You'll forgive me—won't you? I didn't know—and—oh, what's the use of talking?"
Yet they talked for hours. Conventionally he should have torn himself away, unable to bear the strain of his agony. As a matter of fact, he sat by her holding her hand. It was for the last time—the last, last time. There was really a third at that interview. The Onlooker had imagination enough to see the scene between the parting lovers.