He interrupted: "'For they know not what they do.' . . . You are right. . . . We don't really know, any of us. But few, except such as you, believe it—few except such as you—and the Master who taught you. . . . And that is all, I think. . . . I can't thank you; I can't even try. . . . It is too close to melodrama now—not on your side, dear little lady!"
He rose.
"Are you—going?"
"Yes."
He turned unconsciously and looked through the windows into the southern darkness.
"I—want you to stay," she said.
He turned and bent toward her with his youthful and engaging manner.
"It is sweet and good of you; but you know it is best that I go."
"Why?"