"For both of us."
"Ah, Katrine, why? You are a great enough woman to forgive. Can't you do it? You have done so much already."
"I am afraid," she answered. "I suffered too much. It was too horrible. Only," and she touched his shoulder gently, "you are not to think that I don't care for you. It mayn't be in just the way that I used to do; but nobody else could ever be to me what you have been. I don't believe a woman, a real woman, ever loves twice in her life, do you?" She asked the question with the manner distinctively her own, of comradeship, of wanting to touch souls even on this question most vital to them both.
"I hope it's true of you, Katrine."
The gray sea broke in white lines on the shore beneath them; the gulls uttered shrill, clattering cries above their heads, before Katrine rose.
"We must be going—on!" she said, looking seaward, her hands clasped in front of her, her face saddened and white.
"But, Katrine," he cried, "look at me, Katrine! Nothing has been settled between us. I have asked you to marry me. You say you will not.
You tell me you still care some little for me. It's a foolish situation. I was a cad, an ignorant and colossally selfish cad, but I am humbled and oh, I want you so!"
There was nothing but kindness and affection in her face as she stood with appealing eyes looking up at him.
"Do you want me to tell you what I believe to be the truth?"