"You must answer me one question plainly," she continued, "and I want the truth. Will you, Mr. Westerfelt?"
"If I can I will, Harriet."
"On your honor?"
"Yes, on my honor."
"Were you not leaving simply to—to get away from the—(oh, I don't know how to say it)—the—because you did not want to be near me?"
He shrank back; how was he to reply to such a pointed question?
"On your word of honor, Mr. Westerfelt!"
There was nothing for him to do but answer in the affirmative, but it fired him with a desire to justify himself. "But it was not because I don't love you, Harriet. On the other hand, it was because I do—so much that the whole thing is simply driving me crazy. As God is my judge, I worship you—I love you as no man ever loved a woman before. But when I remember—"
"I know what you are going to say," her lip curling in scorn, "and I want to help you forget my misfortune. Perhaps you will when I tell you that my feeling for you is dying a natural death, and it is dying because I no longer respect you as I did."
"Oh, God! don't—don't say that, Harriet!"