him silent on one point. He said nothing of his own doubts; his own
wonder whether after all he loved or wanted Loraine. Just now he fancied
he wanted Marcia Terroll.

When the recital reached its end he stood for a space gazing into the
fog which seemed an emblem of his own life. He was waiting for her to
speak, but the silence remained unbroken. At last he turned and saw her
sitting there no longer tearful, only a little stunned.

"I couldn't lie to you," he protested in a hurried utterance as he came
over and knelt on the floor at her side. "Not to you.... Of course, you
know that I love you very dearly as a man loves his rarest friends....
You know what our comradeship means to me--"

With an impulsive forward sweep of her hands she interrupted him and her
voice was burdened with deep pain and heart-ache.

"Don't!" she pleaded, and the monosyllable was like a cry. "Oh, don't!"
Then after a little while she went on slowly: "You are a romanticist,
Paul, and a dreamer. Some day you will wake up. We all do."

"It was better to tell you, dear, wasn't it? It would have been
unfair--"

She bowed her head wearily as though realizing the futility of expecting
him to understand. "Yes, I suppose so, only--"

He waited a moment, then prompted:

"Only what?"

"Only perhaps a stronger man would have told me before he--kissed me."

"Did that--make so much difference?"

The green-gray eyes grew soft and the lips smiled wanly. "Yes--all the
difference," she said. "It made me think for a moment that--that
everything was different.... Ordinarily people don't--I mean men
don't--" She broke off and then explained a little laboriously. "To me
that sort of kiss must mean a very great deal to excuse itself."

"But I did mean it," he fervently assured her. "Marcia, I have been
horribly unhappy and you have been lonely. We have seen so much of each
other because we wanted each other--needed each other."

The girl rose and went quietly over to the window. Outside the murk of
the fog was raw and choking. The stertorous snore of the ferry whistles
was uneasy, ominous: the spirit of the town's myriad anxieties. She
began to speak with measured syllables and an averted face.

"No, you don't need me, Paul. I hadn't understood before, but I do now.
I am this moment's whim, that's all. I don't need you either, I don't
need anyone." A trace of resolution and hurt pride tinged the voice, but
the resolution was predominant. "I've depend