“Wait, Miles!” she said, “I’ve something more to tell you.” She began hurriedly, like a guilty child, but as she went on her voice became firm. “I don’t know who my father was. I was told his name was Williams, but I don’t know whether he is alive or dead. I’m the child of a servant who was never married. You see if you married me, it might be said that I wanted the protection of your name. I’ve none of my own.”
It was his turn to be impatient, and he had an impulse now to laugh and take her in his arms. But he held back.
“Mary,” he said seriously, “in the first place what has all that to do with it?”
“But it’s true. And you’ve forgotten my name is Moira.”
“I don’t care. It’s all beside the point. I’ve never been strong for relatives, my own kin into the bargain. I might not enjoy yours. But do you suppose it makes any difference to any one who your father is? Your father and mother are your face, your beautiful, glorious face. Your birthright is yourself, your incredible perfection. Don’t you see, it isn’t your father or your mother you’re giving up, but yourself, all this miracle? You can’t give all that to me. I’m not worth it. I can’t count on myself. How can I ask you to count on me?”
“You don’t know yourself. You never have.”
“Mary!” he cried, and she let him continue using the old name which came so naturally. She felt his intense desire to be honest, while it angered and annoyed her. Why should he decide these things for her? But he went on, “Don’t you see? This is just a—a sentiment, a ridiculous illusion about your birth.”
“It’s true,” she replied. “I must know that you believe it’s true—or nothing can go on.”
“If it were a thousand times true it wouldn’t make me good enough for you.”
She sat down beside the road. Tears were coming to her eyes, and she hated to have him see them.