"There has never been any hope of that, I think; not from the very beginning. While I remained an honest man there was the insurmountable obstacle I once told you of—the honor debt my father left me. And when I became a thief and a grafter for love's sake I put myself out of the running, definitely and hopelessly."
"Has she told you so?"
"Not in so many words; there was no need. There can be no fellowship between light and darkness."
Miss Cortwright's beautiful eyes mirrored well-bred incredulity, and there was the faintest possible suggestion of lenient scorn in her smile.
"What a pedestal you have built for her!" she said. "Has it never occurred to you that she may be just a woman—like other women? Tell me, Mr. Brouillard, have you asked her to marry you?"
"You know very well that I haven't."
"Then, if you value your peace of mind, don't. She would probably say 'yes' and you would be miserable forever after. Ideals are exceedingly fragile things, you know. They are made to be looked up to, not handled."
"Possibly they are," he said, as one who would rather concede than dispute. The reaction was setting in, bringing a discomforting conviction that he had opened the door of an inner sanctuary to unsympathetic eyes.
Followed a little pause, which was threatening to become awkward when Miss Cortwright broke it and went back to the beginning of things.
"I came to tender my good offices in the—the disagreement, as you call it, between you and father. Can't you be complaisant for once, in a way, Mr. Brouillard?"