dn't ask
such a thing of you if you were happy, but you're not happy. I don't
believe you know what to do with your future. You're not interested in
things, as you were when you first came--except in the Casino, and that
can't go on forever. The sort of thing you're doing now eats a woman's
soul away. Men can stand it longer than women. Almost anything else
would be better for you. Even marrying me. Maybe you would take an
interest in the place I've bought. It could be made so beautiful! You
can't imagine the joy I've had in simply picturing you there."

"I should love to come--to see it--but only as your friend," Mary said,
stammering guiltily, as if she were doing wrong in refusing him. "Oh, I
can't tell you how sorry, how sorry I am!"

"You needn't be sorry," he answered. "I might have known what I wanted
was too good to come true. I might have known I was beyond the pale. And
I did know, in my heart. Only I had to find out, for sure. You mustn't
mind. I wouldn't be without the memory of this day with you, anyhow--not
for the world. It's good enough to live on for the rest of my life."

"But--you speak as if we weren't to see each other any more," said Mary.
"Can't we go on being friends?"

"Yes. Wherever we are, we'll 'go on being friends.' But you may leave
Monte. You probably will. And I--I shall be leaving too. Still, we'll
'go on being friends.' And the next favour I ask of you, if you possibly
can, will you grant it?"

"Indeed I will," Mary promised eagerly. "Ask me now."

"Not yet. Not quite yet. The time hasn't come. But it will before long.
Then you must remember."

"I'll remember always." She stood up and held out her hand. He took it
in his, and shook it heartily. His manner was so quiet, so commonplace,
his face and voice so calm, that she could hardly believe that he really
cared, that he really "minded much," as she put it to herself. Can a man
shake hands like that with a woman, she wondered, if he is
broken-hearted because she has refused him?

"Now we must go," she said. "I--shouldn't like to be late for my
appointment."

"You shan't be late," he assured her, cheerfully. Then, just as they
were moving away from the table, he stopped. "Will you give me one of
those roses," he asked, "to keep for a souvenir?"

Their waiter had adorned the little feast with a glass containing a few
short-stemmed roses. Mary selected the prettiest, a white one just
unfolding from the bud, and gave it to Capta