er out and asked her to marry him."

"Perhaps not with decency. But it is a place where this precious honor of
yours might come into play. It would at least be honorable."

"There isn't a man who would agree with you," he cried.

"Nor is there a woman who would agree with you," I retorted. But both of
us stretched things a little at this point.

He thought over the situation for a few minutes, then said,

"You understand that, in my opinion, Louise loves me the best."

"The best--yes. For that very reason you must not marry her. O Charlie!
try to understand," I pleaded. "She must love the best when she loves at
all. She has loved the best in you, until she has put it out of your reach
ever to attain to it. It would not be fair to the girl, it would be
robbing her, to accept all this beautiful love for you, and give her in
return--your love for another girl. Do you suppose for an instant that
you could continue to deceive her after you were married? Supposing she
found out afterwards, then what? She might die of that. I cannot say. It
would be enough to kill her. But not if you are honest and manly enough to
tell her in time to save her self-respect. You are powerless to touch it
now. You could kill it if you were married."

"Honest and manly enough to confess myself a rascal? I don't see where it
would come in," he replied gloomily.

"It is the nearest approach to it which lies in your power."

"If the girls' places were only reversed now! I could tell Frankie that I
had been false to our engagement and had fallen in love with Louise. She
would know how it was herself. But Louise couldn't comprehend such things.
I believe she has been as true to me, even in thought, as if she had been
my wife. How can I tell her?"

"The more you say, the plainer you make it your duty. I say, how can you
not tell her?"

"I might go away for a year and not let her know and not write to her.
Then she would know without my having to tell her."

"You wouldn't stand it if a man called you a coward. Don't try my woman's
friendship for you too far. You insult me by offering such a suggestion."

"Gently, gently, Ruth. I beg your pardon." (Rachel was right in saying he
would not quarrel. I wished he would. I never wanted to quarrel so much in
my life.)

"I am a coward," he broke down at last. "I'll spare you the trouble of
saying so. But oh, Ruth, you don't know how I dread a scene! You go and
tell her. I can't. I couldn't even wri