“Reason? What reason? Speak, Edwin, speak.”
“Simply this, Mary,” he answered, gravely. “I am unworthy of your love.”
“You unworthy, Edwin? No, no. You jest.”
“I never jest,” said Edwin Dell.
“Edwin,” she cried, “I cannot endure this suspense. Tell me, is there another?”
He hung his head.
“There was,” he said, “another.”
“You don’t mean . . . ?” she said in an anguished whisper.
“Yes,” he said, “I mean . . .”
Her grip on his hand tightened.