ption. And in
talking about 'taking the consequences,' he's patting his personal
sacrifice on the back and forgetting all about her and the sacrifice
he's putting her to. What's the brief suffering of a broken engagement
to that? No: the true consequences that a man should shoulder for making
such a mistake is the poor opinion that society holds of him for placing
a woman in such a position; and to free her is the most honorable thing
he can do. Her dignity suffers less so than if she were a wife chained
down to perpetual disregard."

John, after a silence, said: "That is a very curious view."

"That is the view I shall give my friend," I answered. "I shall tell him
that in keeping on he is not at bottom honestly thinking of the girl and
her welfare, but of himself and the public opinion he's afraid of, if
he breaks his engagement. And I shall tell him that if I'm in church
and they come to the place where they ask if any man knows just cause or
impediment, I shall probably call out, 'He does! His heart's not in
it. This is not marriage that he's committing. You're pronouncing your
blessing upon a fraud.'"

John sat now a long time silent, holding his extinct cigar. The lamp
was almost burned dry; we had blown out the expiring candles some while
since. "That is a very curious view," he repeated. "I should like to
hear what your friend says in answer."

This finished our late sitting. We opened the door and went out for a
brief space into the night to get its pure breath into our lungs, and
look to the distant place where the moon had sailed. Then we went to
bed, or rather, I did; for the last thing that I remembered was John,
standing by the window of our bedroom still dressed, looking out into
the forest.

XX: What She Wanted Him For

He was neither at the window, nor in his bed, nor anywhere else to be
seen, when I opened my eyes upon the world next morning; nor did any
answer come when I called his name. I raised myself and saw outside the
great branches of the wood, bathed from top to trunk in a sunshine that
was no early morning's light; and upon this, the silence of the house
spoke plainly to me not of man still sleeping, but of man long risen and
gone about his business. I stepped barefoot across the wooden floor to
where lay my watch, but it marked an unearthly hour, for I had neglected
to wind it at the end of our long and convivial evening--of which my
head was now giving me some news. And then I