He was saying that he loved her, loved her. Did she understand? That he had been miserable? His defense was masterly. He played on her imagination delicately, as if she were a harp, and his fingers touched the strings. He realized what a cad he must have seemed. But she was a saint in a shrine—it will be seen that he did not hesitate to borrow from Randy. She was a saint in a shrine, and well, he knelt at her feet—a sinner. "You needn't think that I don't know what I have done, Becky. I swept you along with me without
a thought of anything serious in it for either of us. It was just a game, sweetheart, and lots of people play it, but it isn't a game now, it is the most serious thing in life."
There is no eloquence so potent as that which is backed by genuine passion. Becky coming down through the garden had been so sure of herself. She had felt that pride would be the rock to which she would anchor her resistance to his enchantments. Yet here in the garden——
"Oh, please," she said, and stood up.
He rose, too, and towered above her. "Becky," he said, hoarsely, "it's the real thing—for me——"
His spell was upon her. She was held by it—drawn by it against her will. Her cry was that of a frightened and fascinated bird.
He bent down. His face was a white circle in the dark, but she could see the sparkle of his eyes. "Kiss me, Becky."
"I shall never kiss you again."
"I love you."
"Love," she said, with a sort of tense quiet, "does not kiss and run away."