Martie nodded. Under the willows, and in the soft fog of the morning, the thing suddenly seemed a tragedy.
"Aren't you," he said simply, "aren't you going to marry me?"
His tone brought the tears to her eyes.
"I can't!" she whispered. "John, I'm sorry!"
"Sorry," he echoed dully. "But—but I don't understand. You can't mean that you have promised—that you expect—to marry any one else but me?" And as Martie again allowed a silence to fall, he took a few steps away from her, walking like a person blinded by sudden pain. "I don't understand," he said again. "I never thought of anything but that we belonged to each other—I've thought of it all the time! And now you tell me—I can't believe it! Is it settled? Is it all decided?"
"My family and his family know," Martie said.
"Oh, but Martie—you can't mean that!" he burst out in agony. "What have I done! What have I done—to have you do this! You don't love him!"
"John," she said steadily, catching his hands, "even if I were free, you aren't, dear. We could never be married while Adele lives."
He turned his steady gaze upon her.
"Then last night—" he asked gravely.