ncommonly glad . . . you felt this in
time. For, don't you see . . ." Unexpectedly he hesitated.

"Yes . . . I see," she murmured.

"Of course you would," he said, looking at the carpet and speaking
like one who thinks of something else. He lifted his head. "I
cannot believe--even after this--even after this--that you are
altogether--altogether . . . other than what I thought you. It seems
impossible--to me."

"And to me," she breathed out.

"Now--yes," he said, "but this morning? And to-morrow? . . . This is
what . . ."

He started at the drift of his words and broke off abruptly. Every train
of thought seemed to lead into the hopeless realm of ungovernable folly,
to recall the knowledge and the terror of forces that must be ignored.
He said rapidly--

"My position is very painful--difficult . . . I feel . . ."

He looked at her fixedly with a pained air, as though frightfully
oppressed by a sudden inability to express his pent-up ideas.

"I am ready to go," she said very low. "I have forfeited everything
. . . to learn . . . to learn . . ."

Her chin fell on her breast; her voice died out in a sigh. He made a
slight gesture of impatient assent.

"Yes! Yes! It's all very well . . . of course. Forfeited--ah! Morally
forfeited--only morally forfeited . . . if I am to believe you . . ."

She startled him by jumping up.

"Oh! I believe, I believe," he said, hastily, and she sat down as
suddenly as she had got up. He went on gloomily--

"I've suffered--I suffer now. You can't understand how much. So much
that when you propose a parting I almost think. . . . But no. There is
duty. You've forgotten it; I never did. Before heaven, I never did. But
in a horrid exposure like this the judgment of mankind goes astray--at
least for a time. You see, you and I--at least I feel that--you and I
are one before the world. It is as it should be. The world is right--in
the main--or else it couldn't be--couldn't be--what it is. And we are
part of it. We have our duty to--to our fellow beings who don't want to
. . . to . . . er."

He stammered. She looked up at him with wide eyes, and her lips were
slightly parted. He went on mumbling--

". . . Pain. . . . Indignation. . . . Sure to misunderstand. I've
suffered enough. And if there has been nothing irreparable--as you
assure me . . . then . . ."

"Alvan!" she cried.

"What?" he said, morosely. He gazed down at her for a moment with a
sombre stare, as one looks at ruins