They went along in silence, down Seventh Avenue, to the entrance of the park at One Hundred and Tenth Street. They entered here, and proceeded, at the easy pace he had set, side by side, both looking ahead. All about them in the warm dark were lovers, sitting close together on the benches, walking hand in hand. There was a very atmosphere of love. And Angelica must go on beside this man, who didn’t even turn his head to look at her, who had nothing to say to her. He only quoted some poetry which she neither liked nor understood, for it had nothing to do with love; it was about the foreign people in the city and the hot weather.
She tried to lean upon her pride. Very well, if he didn’t mind wasting this precious and beautiful hour together, then neither would she; but she couldn’t restrain a hoarse little sob that flew suddenly into her throat.
Vincent stopped.
"Now, my dear child!" he remonstrated. "Don’t! You make it so hard for me. It’s not kind."
She tried to stop weeping, but couldn’t at once. He laid a hand on her shoulder and gently patted her.
"You mustn’t take it like this, my dear; or else I shan’t be strong enough. Do you know why I came to-night?"
"I suppose—you wanted to see me."
"No, I didn’t. It’s only pain for me to see you. I can’t have you. I mustn’t even think of you. I’ve got to give you up. I’ve got to stop loving you."
"Can you?" she asked, with quivering lips.
"I must. I came to tell you so. You must forget all I said last night. I shouldn’t be fit to live if I were to harm you. Angelica, what do you think I am? Do you think I could harm you? Do you think it’s in me to do so brutal a thing, Angelica?"