Slowly Mel withdrew her hands. The query seemed to make her mistress of herself.
"No, Daren, I cannot," she replied, and turned away to look out of a window with unseeing eyes. "Let us talk of other things.... My father says he will move away—taking me and—and—all of us—as soon as he sells the home."
"No, Mel, if you'll forgive me, we'll not talk of something else," Lane informed her. "We can argue without quarreling. Come over here and sit down."
She came slowly, as if impelled, and she stood before him. To Lane it seemed as if she were both supplicating and inexorable.
"Do you remember the last time we sat together on this couch?" she asked.
"No, Mel, I don't."
"It was four years ago—and more. I was sixteen. You tried to kiss me and were angry because I wouldn't let you."
"Well, wasn't I rude!" he exclaimed, facetiously. Then he grew serious. "Mel, do you remember it was Helen's lying that came between you and me—as boy and girl friends?"
"I never knew. Helen Wrapp! What was it?"
"It's not worth recalling and would hurt you—now," he replied. "But it served to draw me Helen's way. We were engaged when she was seventeen.... Then came the war. And the other night she laughed in my face because I was a wreck.... Mel, it's beyond understanding how things work out. Helen has chosen the fleshpots of Egypt. You have chosen a lonelier and higher path.... And here I am in your little parlor asking you to marry me."