"That is not fair," cried Everett. "I am not an individual fighting less fortunate individuals. I am an insignificant wheel in a great machine. You must not blame me because I-"
With an exclamation the girl reproached him.
"Because you do your duty!" she protested. "Is that fair to me? If for my sake or my brother you failed in your duty, if you were less vigilant, less eager, even though we suffer, I could not love you."
Everett sighed happily.
"As long as you love me," he said, "neither your brother nor any one else can keep us apart."
"My brother," said the girl, as though she were pronouncing a sentence, "always will keep us apart, and I will always love you."
It was a week before he again saw her, and then the feeling he had read in her eyes was gone—or rigorously concealed. Now her manner was that of a friend, of a young girl addressing a man older than herself, one to whom she looked up with respect and liking, but with no sign of any feeling deeper or more intimate.
It upset Everett completely. When he pleaded with her, she asked:
"Do you think it is easy for me? But—" she protested, "I know I am doing right. I am doing it to make you happy."
"You are succeeding," Everett assured her, "in making us both damned miserable."