Lynn walked on in silence for a little while, then turned. Her face was white.
"I can't marry you, Gerald," she said, distinctly.
"Why not? There's some one else?"
"No—not in the way you mean."
"Then it's just that you don't care enough. It must be."
She said nothing, but bit her lips and quivered.
"You do care," he burst forth, suddenly. "Lynn, you do care. I know it. I feel it. You have taken some crazy notion in your head, some fanatical idea or other. Tell me! I insist on knowing what it is. If you care for me you will confide in me about this. You must see how cruelly unfair it is to tell me that you can't marry me and to refuse to even let me know the reason. Tell me! Even if it is something which prevents our marrying now, the difficulty may be surmounted in a few years' time. Tell me."
Lynn started and turned toward firm, her face suddenly illuminated.
"Do you?" she cried, breathlessly, "do you—oh, it isn't right, I oughtn't to ask it—but do you care enough to wait—to wait—perhaps, for a year, or even two years and keep our—the engagement secret?"
"Why, of course I do. What's two years against a life-time? But, Lynn, I don't like secrecy. Can't you tell me what all this means?"