“I couldn’t bear it, my darling,” he answered in a low voice. “How can I possibly enjoy dancing and fun when I know that in a few days I shall go to prison in disgrace. My firm are not the kind of people to let me off.”
“Four thousand five hundred!” the girl repeated as though to herself.
“Yes. And I haven’t the slightest prospect of getting it anywhere. If I could only borrow it I could sail along into smooth waters again. But that is quite out of the question.”
Peggy remained silent for a few moments. Then, of a sudden, she looked straight into her lover’s eyes, and taking his hand in hers said:
“Poor dear! What can I do to help you?”
“Nothing,” was his low reply. “Only—only forget me. That’s all. You can’t marry a man who’s been to prison.”
Again a silence fell between them, while the dead leaves whirled along the path.
“But you will stay here over the week-end, won’t you, dear?” she urged. “I ask you to do so. Do not refuse me—will you?”
He tried to excuse himself. But she clung to him and kissed him, declaring that at least they might spend the week-end together before he left to face the worst.
Her lover endeavored to point out the impossibility of their marriage, but she remained inexorable.