it was idiotic. I should have
known; I did know.

"I see," I said. "I understand. Forgive me, please. I was a fool to even
think of such a thing. I didn't think it. I didn't dare until--until
just now. Then I was told--your cousin said--I might have known he
didn't mean what he said. But he said it and--and--"

"What did he say? Mr. Cripps, do you mean? What did he say?"

"He said--he said you--you cared for me--in that way. Of course you
don't--you can't. I know better. But for the moment I dared to hope. I
was crazy, of course. Forgive me, Frances."

She looked up and then down again.

"There is nothing to forgive," she said.

"Yes, there is. There is a great deal. An old--"

"Hush! hush, please. Don't speak like that. I--I thank you. I--you
mustn't suppose I am not grateful. I know you pity me. I know how
generous you are. But your pity--"

"It isn't pity. I should pity myself, if that were all. I love you
Frances, and I shall always love you. I am not ashamed of it. I shall
have that love to comfort me till I die. I am ashamed of having told
you, of troubling you again, that is all."

I was turning away, but I heard her step beside me and felt her hand
upon my sleeve. I turned back again. She was looking me full in the face
now and her eyes were shining.

"What Mr. Cripps said was true," she said.

I could not believe it. I did not believe it even then.

"True!" I repeated. "No, no! You don't mean--"

"I do mean it. I told him that I loved you."

I don't know what more she would have said. I did not wait to hear. She
was in my arms at last and all England was whirling about me like a top.

"But you can't!" I found myself saying over and over. I must have
said other things before, but I don't remember them. "You can't! it is
impossible. You! marry an old fossil like me! Oh, Frances, are you sure?
Are you sure?"

"Yes, Kent," softly, "I am sure."

"But you can't love me. You are sure that your--You have no reason to be
grateful to me, but you have said you were, you know. You are sure you
are not doing this because--"

"I am sure. It is not because I am grateful."

"But, my dear--think! Think what it means, I am--"

"I know what you are," tenderly. "No one knows as well. But, Kent--Kent,
are YOU sure? It isn't pity for me?"

I think I convinced her that it was not pity. I know I tried. And I was
still trying when the sound of steps and voices on the other side of
the shrubbery caused us--or