"But now you know."
There was no mistaking her. Utterly dumfounded, he could not trust an immediate answer. "I see, I see," he said finally.
"And you'll like her just the same?"
He drew a deep breath. His eyes were on her face, trying to read it in the dimness. Then, "I am not a cub boy, Miss Dallas."
"You won't stay away," she persisted. "You'll come."
"If I'm judging right, I mustn't. I'm—I'm sorry."
"Sorry!—just sorry."
He strode back and forth a few times. "Why—why, Miss Dallas, you must understand that a man can't—when a girl——Well, it'd be low for me to talk about it, that's all—out and out low."
Something stirred her powerfully then—something she combated, and concealed from him by a touch of apparent anger. "There's nothing low about it," she said. "A man ought to be proud. Oh," as he was about to reply, "you don't know how she's felt. She's been sick over it, white and sad, and at night she'd cry."
He winced.