The man sat with his great body drooping forward, and his hands clasped, and hanging between his parted knees.
"Unhappy? It's—it's worse than that. I—I came over here to tell you that—that you can have your promise back—if you want it."
It was out. He had blurted it clumsily he knew, but it was out. And now he sat fearing to look up into the truthful eyes he loved so dearly.
Phyllis drew a sharp breath. She looked straight ahead of her for one brief moment while her sunny cheeks paled. Then the soft color came back to them, and, presently, a very tender, very wise pair of eyes studied his dejected profile.
"And if I don't want it—back?" she said gently.
Frank raised his miserable eyes and looked straight into hers.
"But you will when you know all," he cried, almost passionately. "I know it. I feel it. I know that a good, honest girl like you could not bear disgrace. No disgrace has ever touched you, and, through me, no disgrace ever shall. When I asked for your promise I did not know all I know now. If I had I would rather have cut off my right hand than attempt to win your love. And now—now I know that I had no right to it. I have no right to any good woman's love. I—I have no right to anything. Not even to my name."
"Frank!"
Another sharp intake of breath came with the girl's exclamation.
"Yes, I mean it," the boy went on, with passionate misery. "I have known it for six weeks, and I should have told you before, but—but I hadn't the courage, the honesty. I—I have no legitimate father. I—I am a bastard."