s, young faces close, and hearts afire.

"Sylvia, I love you."

For an instant their lips clung; she had rendered him his kiss. Then,
tremblingly, "It is useless ... even though I loved you."

"Say it!"

"I do."

"Say it!"

"I--I cannot! ... And it is no use--no use! I do not know myself--this
way. My eyes--are wet. It is not like me; there is nothing of me in this
girl you hold so closely, so confidently. ... I do care for you--how can I
help it? How could any woman help it? Is not that enough?"

"Until you are a bride, yes."

"A bride? Stephen!--I cannot--"

"You cannot help it, Sylvia."

"I must! I have my way to go."

"My way lies that way."

"No! no! I cannot do it; it is not best for me--not best for you. ... I
do care for you; you have taught me how to say it. But--you know what
I have done--and mean to do, and must carry through. Then, how can you
love a girl like that?"

"Dear, I know the woman I love."

"Silly, she is what her life has made her--material, passionately
selfish, unable to renounce the root of all evil. ... Even if this--this
happiness were ours always--I mean, if this madness could last our
wedded life--I am not good enough, not noble enough, to forget what I
might have had, and put away. ... Is it not dreadful to admit it? Do you
not know that self-contempt is part of the price? ... I have no money. I
know what you have. ... I asked. And it is enough for a man who remains
unmarried. ... For I cannot 'make things do'; I cannot 'contrive'; I will
not cling to the fringe of things, or play that heartbreaking role of
the shabby expatriated on the Continent. ... No person in this world ever
had enough. I tell you I could find use for every flake of metal ever
mined! ... You see you do not know me. From my pretty face and figure you
misjudge me. I am intelligent--not intellectual, though I might have
been, might even be yet. I am cultivated, not learned; though I care for
learning--or might, if I had time. ... My role in life is to mount to a
security too high for any question as to my dominance. ... Can you take me
there?"

"There are other heights, Sylvia."

"Higher?"

"Yes, dear."

"The spiritual; I know. I could not breathe there, if I cared to climb.
... And I have told you what I am--all silk and lace and smooth-skinned
selfishness." She looked at him wistfully. "If you can change me, take
me." And she rose, facing him.

"I do not give you up," he said, with a savage