"Hush, Charlie," she cried almost vehemently, "you mustn't tell me all
this. You mustn't. I am not worthy of such a love from any man.
Besides," she went on, with a sigh, "it is all so useless. I have no
love to return you. You know that. You have known it so long. Our
friendship has been precious to me. It will always be precious. I
feel, somehow, that you belong to me, are part of me, but not in the
way you would have it. Oh, Charlie, the one thought in my mind, the
one desire in my heart, is for your welfare. I desire that more than I
could ever desire the love of any man. You love me, and yet by every
act of yours that jeopardizes that welfare you stab me to the heart
as surely as you add another nail to the coffin of your moral and
physical well-being. You come here to tell me of these things,
straight from one of your mad debauches, the signs of which are even
now in your eyes, and in your shaking, nervous hands. Oh, Charlie, why
must it all be? What madness is it with which you are possessed?"

The man looked into her big eyes, so full of strength and courage. The
yellow lamplight left them shining darkly. He sought in them something
that always seemed to baffle. Something he knew was there, but which
ever eluded him. And the while he cried out in bitterness at her
challenge.

"What does it matter--these things?" he said hoarsely. "What does it
matter what I am if--I can't be anything to you?"

Then his bitterness was redoubled, and an almost savage light shone in
his usually gentle eyes.

"Oh, God, I know I can never be anything to you but a sort of puling
weakling, who must be nursed, and petted, and cared for. I know," he
went on, his words coming with a rush in the height of his protesting
passion, "if your thoughts, your secret thoughts and feelings, were
put into words, I know what they would say of me, must say of me. Do I
need to tell you? No, I think not. Look at me. It is sufficient."

He paused, his great dark eyes alight as Kate had never seen them
before. Then he went on, and his tone had become subdued, and its rich
note thrilled with the depths of passion stirring him.

"But for all that I am a man, Kate. For all my weakness I have
strength to feel, to love, to fight. I have all that, besides, which
goes to make a man, just as surely as has the man, Fyles, whom you
love. I know, Kate. Denial would be useless, and in denying, you would
be untrue to yourself. Fyles is the man for you, and no