p on the West Side--One Hundred and
Twenty-seventh Street."

"The wise plan, the only wise plan," said I, not so calm as she must have
thought me, "is to go to my partner's house and send for a minister."

"Not to-night," she replied nervously. "Take me to Uncle Frank's, and
to-morrow we can discuss what to do and how to do it."

"To-night," I persisted. "We must be married to-night. No more uncertainty
and indecision and weakness. Let us begin bravely, Anita!"

"To-morrow," she said. "But not to-night. I must think it over."

"To-night," I repeated. "To-morrow will be full of its own problems. This
is to-night's."

She shook her head, and I saw that the struggle between us had begun--the
struggle against her timidity and conventionality. "No, not tonight." This
in her tone for finality.

To argue with any woman in such circumstances would be dangerous; to argue
with her would have been fatal. To reason with a woman is to flatter
her into suspecting you of weakness and herself of strength. I told the
chauffeur to turn about and go slowly up town. She settled back into her
corner of the brougham. Neither of us spoke until we were passing Grant's
Tomb. Then she started out of her secure confidence in my obedience, and
exclaimed: "This is not the way!" And her voice had in it the hasty
call-to-arms.

"No," I replied, determined to push the panic into a rout. "As I told you,
our future shall be settled to-night." That in _my_ tone for finality.

A pause, then: "It _has_ been settled," she said, like a child that
feels, yet denies, its impotence as it struggles in the compelling arms of
its father. "I thought until a few minutes ago that I really intended to
marry you. Now I see that I didn't."

"Another reason why we're not going to your uncle's," said I.

She leaned forward so that I could see her face. "I can not marry you," she
said. "I feel humble toward you, for having misled you. But it is better
that you--and I--should have found out now than too late."

"It is too late--too late to go back."

"Would you wish to marry a woman who does not love you, who loves some one
else, and who tells you so and refuses to marry you?" She had tried to
concentrate enough scorn into her voice to hide her fear.

"I would," said I. "And I shall. I'll not desert you, Anita, when your
courage and strength shall fail. I will carry you on to safety."

"I tell you I can not marry you," she cried, between appeal and command.