“Please! I told you I was not sure of my own feelings. I—I am sure now. I am so sorry you came. I should have written you. I had begun the letter.”
Again silence. Then he laughed, a short, bitter laugh with anything but mirth in it.
“I am a fool,” he said. “WHAT a fool I have been!”
“Please, Crawford, don't speak so. . . . Oh, where are you going?”
“I? I don't know. What difference does it make where I go? Good-by.”
“Stop, Crawford! Wait! It makes a difference to your father where you go. It makes a difference to me. I—I value your friendship very highly. I hoped I might keep that. I hoped you would let me be your friend, even though the other could not be. I hoped that.”
The minute before she had asked him to forget her, but she did not remember that, nor did he. He was standing by the door, looking out. For a moment he stood there. Then he turned and held out his hand.
“Forgive me, Mary,” he said. “I have behaved like a cad, I'm afraid. When a fellow has been building air castles and all at once they tumble down upon his head he—well, he is likely to forget other things. Forgive me.”
She took his hand. She could keep back the tears no longer; her eyes filled.
“There is nothing for me to forgive,” she said. “If you will forgive me, that is all I ask. And—and let me still be your friend.”