'No, no, Harry; not that,' she said, and he noticed in her voice the strength of some resolution, the firmness that had jarred upon him when last they met.
'Not that!' he repeated. Chris, you love me. For God's sake say it! You have said it. You told me so, an' it was true—oh, my darling, it was true!
He could see her distinctly: she stood in a shaft of moonlight falling between the sombre firs, and her face was marble-like; her whole pose was statuesque, all the girlish gentleness of the other days seemed to have fled from her, and her hour of tribulation had invested her with a dignity and force of will that sat well upon her stately figure. Harry beheld her with something like terror. This was not the woman he loved. His cause had never seemed so utterly hopeless as now, and yet he felt that it was not the true Chris with whom he was dealing; that the true Chris was the soft-eyed clinging girl safely enshrined in his heart.
'Chris,' he said, 'you have changed—but you'll come to me again?'
Her face was turned towards him; she shook her head with passionless decision.
'No, Harry,' she answered, 'that is all past. I sent for you to tell you that we must forget.'
'Forget!' he cried, springing forward and seizing her hand, 'how can I forget? Can a man forget that he loves?'
'You will forget. It is better, and you will live to be glad that you
did.'
'Never, never! Chris, what do you mean? Why're you talking to me of forgetting—why, why?'
'Because I know in my heart that it must be. I came here to tell you so, to ask you to waste no more thought on me.'