Leslie gave him a quick glance. His question came as a relief to her. She seemed on the point of answering it.
"Yes," she began, and then pressed her hand against her lips. "I mean, no—I can't tell you anything except—that the whole thing is absolutely impossible. You would not understand if I told you. I should never want you to understand it."
"Why wouldn't you?"
"Because the instant that you understood it, you would find that you couldn't understand it," she told him enigmatically. "And yet," she murmured as though to herself, "it's all so clear, so plain to me."
Beekman quickly caught her by the wrist. Her hand still clenched itself, and he could feel her nerves throbbing as with pain.
"Your father tells me it's all right," he went on, his voice growing hoarser as he proceeded, for he couldn't see that he was making any headway with the girl; "he approves, gives his consent, all that sort of thing. He seemed glad, friendly. It seemed to be what he wanted. Why do you hesitate?"
"I don't hesitate," she answered, though uncertainly. All the time she was praying that he would let her go. She wanted to escape. All that she wished for now was to get to her room at the top of the house, where in solitude she could rest and weep.
"My father," she resumed, "knows nothing—nothing of my reasons. This is a matter of my own. Even he couldn't understand...."
Beekman dropped her hand and said:
"Leslie, tell me one thing: Is there some one else?"