in Bordeaux that went pretty well.
That sort of thing didn't seem worth while to me then and I never went
on with it.

"Oh, you know how I've felt about it. How I've talked about traveling
light and not letting my life get cluttered up. But that isn't really the
thing that's changed. I've never been willing to pay, in liberty and
leisure, for things I didn't want. The only difference is that there's
something now that I do want. And I shan't shirk paying for it. I want
you to understand that."

He stressed the word you in a way that puzzled John a little, but what
he went on to say after a moment's hesitation made his meaning clear.

"That's preliminary. You'll find that Mary's misgivings--she's not
without them and they won't be easy to overcome--aren't the same as ours.
Those aren't the things that she's afraid of. She's afraid of taking my
liberty away from me. She won't be able to believe, easily, that my old
vagabond ways have lost their importance for me; that they're a phase I
can afford to outgrow. She's likely to think I've sacrificed something
essential in going regularly to work, giving lessons, writing popular
songs. Of course, it will rest mostly with me to satisfy her that that
isn't true, but any help you can give her along that line, I'll be
grateful for. Last night she seemed convinced--far enough to give me her
promise but..."

Words faded away there into an uneasy silence. John, looking intently
into the man's face, saw him wrestling, he thought, with same idea, some
fear, some sort of nightmare horror which with all the power of his will
he was struggling not to give access to. He pressed his clenched hands
against his eyes.

"What is it?" John asked sharply. "What's the matter?"

"It's nothing," March said between his teeth. "She promised, as I said.
She told me I needn't be afraid." Then he came to his feet with a gesture
of surrender. "Will you let me see her?" he asked John. "Now. Just for a
minute before I go."

John, by that time, was on his feet, too, staring. "What do you mean,
man? Afraid of what? What is it you're afraid of?"

March didn't answer the question in words, but for a moment he met her
father's gaze eye to eye and what John saw was enough.

"Good God!" he whispered. "Why--why didn't you ..." Then turning swiftly
toward the door. "Come along."

"I'm really not afraid," March panted as he followed him up the stairs,
"because of her promise. It was just a twinge."

Her