"But, Gertrude, hear me," he pleaded. "The past year has been a revelation. You have been a revelation to me."
"Yes, I," she retorted. "Not the eternal principles of manhood and womanhood, walking together—different and yet alike—only I—"
"I swear to you," he cried, "I have come to see that a woman may be all womanly and yet be as much a power and a worker in the world as her husband; that her place is where she can be of the greatest help to humanity."
"No," said Gertrude firmly, for his expression as he spoke the last sentence, was that of the man who had scorned the proposition of a woman for mayor—"no; we are radically opposed to each other. We are not just a boy and girl who might grow together in spite of all differences. We are a man and woman of strong opinions, just as unlike as possible. We should quarrel fearfully; and life is given us for something better than bickering and growing to hate each other. No, I say—no."
"Perhaps I'd better leave you here," said Allingham, coldly, when she stopped. And raising his hat, he turned down a side street. Somehow the charm of the long walk had fled and Gertrude hurried her steps, too, taking the shortest route to Van Deusen Hall. But when she was safely sheltered by the four walls of her own room, the strong-willed mayor of Roma threw herself on the bed and indulged in a good cry. For deep down in her heart, she knew she had done wrong—a wrong to the man who loved her—a wrong to her own better nature.
Later she went down to her dinner and faced the world again, cool and dignified; and no one could have dreamed that under her smiling exterior she was hiding a heartache.