-because, if I had a decent opportunity I think I'd
try to fall in love with somebody or other--"

She flushed painfully, looking straight ahead over the steering-wheel
along the blinding path of the acetylenes.

"I am very sorry," she said, "because I had--had almost concluded to
tell them--everything."

"What!" he asked, aghast.

Her eyes were steadily fixed on the fan-shaped radiance ahead which
played fantastically along the silvery avenue of palms and swept the
white road with a glitter like moonlight streaming over snow.

"You mean you are ready for your freedom, Shiela?"

"No."

"_What_ do you mean?"

"That--it may be best--best--to tell them ... and face what is left of
life, together."

"You and I?"

"Yes."

He sat beside her, dumb, incredulous, nimble wits searching for
reasons. What was he to reckon with in this sudden, calm suggestion of a
martyrdom with him? A whim? Some occult caprice?--or a quarrel with
Hamil? Was she wearied of the deception? Or distrustful of herself, in
her new love for Hamil, lest she be tempted to free herself after all?
Was she already at that point where, desperate, benefits forgot,
wavering between infatuation and loyalty, she turned, dismayed, to the
only course which must crush temptation for ever?

"Is that it?" he asked.

"What?" Her lips moved, forming the word without sound.

"Is it because you are so sorely tempted to free yourself at their
expense?"

"Partly."

"You poor child!"

"No child now, Louis.... I have thought too deeply, too clearly. There
is no childhood left in me. I _know_ things.... You will help me, won't
you--if I find I need you?"

"Need _me_, Shiela?"

"I may," she said excitedly; "you can't tell; and I don't know. It is
all so confused. I thought I knew myself but I seem to have just
discovered a devil looking back at me out of my own reflected eyes from
my own mirror!"

"What an exaggerated little thing you are!" he said, forcing a laugh.

"Am I? It must be part of me then. I tell you, since that day they told
me what I am, I have wondered what else I might be. I don't know, but
I'm watching. There are changes--omens, sinister enough to frighten
me--"

"Are you turning morbid?"

"I don't know, Louis. Am I? How can I tell? Whom am I to ask? I _could_
ask my own mother if I had one--even if it hurt her. Mothers are made
for pain--as we young girls are. Miserable, wretched, deceitful,
frightened as I am I _could_ tell her-