"Then marry me. Be my wife, only in name. I swear to you—I—will never see you if you wish it. Or—or trouble you in any way. Only let me do something. I had no idea of—of what—of what all this meant to you."
"Your wife!" she laughed a scornful, tragic, broken-hearted little laugh. "Never in this world. Never! Never that!"
She turned and walked away.
He walked beside her. "Please listen. I will do anything you say. I know I deserve it all, but that afternoon at the convent I was not myself. After what happened I was all wrought up. My brain——"
She stopped, turned about and faced him.
"Yes, there is one thing you can do. Leave me now. And let us not be seen together again—ever."
For a brief moment they stood confronting each other. And Cyrus looked deep into the eyes that once had been his guiding stars; the friendly eyes in whose depths his boy heart had sought—and never in vain—encouragement, or consolation. Now, he was finding in their contemptuous beauty only the cold ashes of their childhood devotion.
Then, once more, she turned her back upon him. Erect and with decisive steps, the little figure departed. He stood watching her as she walked—walking out of his life. In his brain and in his heart was a numbing pain—the knowledge that his highest hopes were dead—killed, and by himself!
There and there he made a decision, a decision of vital import to himself. And why not? Who in the world, except Joanna would mourn, or even miss him? If there be such a thing as consolation when hope is dead, he found it in a great resolve.
As he passed her in his car he raised his cap and murmured