able, just what
he would do if the opportunity came. Instead, all he could do was to sit
foolishly in his chair and look at the coals, not so much as venturing to
turn his head until the sound of footsteps had died away on the upper
floors. It was Cynthia who broke the silence and took command--a very
different Cynthia from the girl who had thrown herself on the bed not
three hours before. She did not look at him, but stared with
determination into the fire.

"Bob, you must go," she said.

"Go!" he cried. Her voice loosed the fetters of his passion, and he dared
to seize the band that lay on the arm of her chair. She did not resist
this.

"Yes, you must go. You should not have stayed for supper."

"Cynthia," he said, "how can I leave you? I will not leave you."

"But you can and must," she replied.

"Why?" he asked, looking at her in dismay.

"You know the reason," she answered.

"Know it?" he cried. "I know why I should stay. I know that I love you
with my whole heart and soul. I know that I love you as few men have ever
loved--and that you are the one woman among millions who can inspire such
a love."

"No, Bob, no," she said, striving hard to keep her head, withdrawing her
hand that it might not betray the treason of her lips. Aware, strange as
it may seem, of the absurdity of the source of what she was to say, for a
trace of a smile was about her mouth as she gazed at the coals. "You will
get over this. You are not yet out of college, and many such fancies
happen there."

For the moment he was incapable of speaking, incapable of finding an
answer sufficiently emphatic. How was he to tell her of the rocks upon
which his love was built?

How was he to declare that the very perils which threatened her had made
a man of him, with all of a man's yearning to share these perils and
shield her from them? How was he to speak at all of those perils? He did
not declaim, yet when he spoke, an enduring sincerity which she could not
deny was in his voice.

"You know in your heart that what you say is not true, Cynthia. Whatever
happens, I shall always love you."

Whatever happens: She shuddered at the words, reminding her as they did
of all her vague misgivings and fears.

"Whatever happens!" she found herself repeating them involuntarily.

"Yes, whatever happens I will love you truly and faithfully. I will never
desert you, never deny you, as long as I live. And you love me, Cynthia,"
he cried, "you love me,