“Yes,” very slowly, “I believe you.”
“Then—”
“I don't know what to say. I'm afraid I—Oh, don't say any more! It isn't right.” She rose suddenly as if to move away, but Harvey caught her dress and then her hand.
“Katherine, you aren't going to leave me this way. Perhaps you don't want me, perhaps I have been mistaken and foolish, but I love you, and that ought to count for something.”
“It does—you don't understand—” She looked out the window for a moment: the first low-lying stars were out. “Don't you suppose,” she said at last, in a labored voice, “that I have feelings? Don't you suppose that I—I don't mean that, either. You have been fighting my father—I have helped you. I have helped you to injure him, my own father. He is sick now, and I left him to-day, because—” Harvey's grasp tightened. “I have been disloyal to him, I have been dishonest—and that counts for something, too. No—we have been good friends, we can still be good friends. Perhaps, if it had been different—but it wasn't.”
“You don't mean this, Katherine.”
She drew her hand away and stood erect, dignified now and calm.
“I am going home. I know that you love me, and I know that you will not hurt me any longer; for it does hurt me, I will tell you that.”
“But I shall see you—” With an effort, he raised himself to his feet and stood, weak and giddy, leaning on the back of the chair. “I won't give you up!”
“Lie down. You mustn't tire yourself. We don't know what may happen,” she steadied his arm as he sat down on the couch; “we only know what is right for us now. Good-by. I will speak to the steward.”