t seen how lovely you are? Do you think I'm a saint--an
anchorite? Well, I'm not. I'll make you love me--love me----"

Something in the reckless tones of his voice--in his very words aroused
her to new struggles. "Oh, let me go," she gasped. "I don't love you. I
won't. Let me go."

"You shall!"

"No. Let me loose or I--I'll despise you----"

"Beth!"

"I mean it. Let me go."

If a moment ago when she was relaxed in his arms he had thought that he
had won her, he had no such notion now, for with a final effort of her
strong young arms, she thrust away from him and stood panting and
disordered, staring at him as though at one she had never seen before.

"Oh--how I hate you!"

"Beth!"

"I mean it. You--you----," she turned away from him, staring at the torn
music on the ground as at a symbol of her disillusionment. Peter saw her
look, felt the meaning of it, tried to recall the words he had said to
her and failed--but sure that they were a true reflection of what had
been in his heart. He had wanted her--then--nothing else had
mattered--not duty or his set resolve....

"You mocked at me, Beth," he muttered. "I couldn't stand that----"

"And is _this_ the way you punish me? Ah, if you'd only--if you'd
only----"

And then with another glance at the torn music, she leaned against the
trunk of a tree, sobbing violently.

"Beth----" he whispered, gently, "don't----"

"Go away. Oh, go. Go!"

"I can't. I won't. What did you want me to say to you? That I love you?
I do, Beth--I do," he whispered. It was Peter Nichols, not Peter
Nicholaevitch, who was whispering now.

"Was this what your teachin' meant?" she flashed at him bitterly. "Was
this what you meant when you wanted to pay my way in New York? Oh, how
you shame me! Go! Go away from me, please."

"Please don't," he whispered. "You don't understand. I never meant that.
I--I love you, Beth. I can't bear to see you cry."

She made a valiant effort to control her heaving shoulders. And then,

"Oh, you--you've spoiled it all. S-spoiled it all, and it was so
beautiful."

Had he? Her words sobered him. No, that couldn't be. He cursed his
momentary madness, struggling for words to comfort her, but he had known
that she had seen the look in his eyes, felt the roughness of his
embrace. Love? The love that she had sung to him was not of these. He
wanted now to touch her again--gently, to lift up her flushed face, wet
like a flower with the fresh dew of her tears