complete sincerity. What was it in
Franklin that compelled sincerity, and made it so easy to be sincere?
There, at least, was a quality for which one would always need him.
'No, not for that, but for having thought that I might, perhaps, fall in
love with you. It is the hope I gave you that must make this seem so
sudden and so cruel.'

He had not felt her cruel, but he had felt something that was now giving
his eyes their melancholy directness of gaze. He was looking at his
Althea; he was not judging her; but he was wishing that she had been
able to think of him a little more as mere friend, a little more as the
man who, after all, had loved her all these years; wishing that she had
not so completely forgotten him, so completely relegated and put him
away when her new life was coming to her. But he understood, he did not
judge, and he answered, 'I don't think you've been cruel, Althea dear,
though it's been rather cruel of fortune, if you like, to arrange it in
just this way. As for hurting my life, you've been the most beautiful
thing in it.'

Something in his voice, final acceptance, final resignation, as though,
seeing her go for ever, he bowed his head in silence, filled her with
intolerable sadness. Was it that she wanted still to need him, or was it
that she could not bear the thought that he might, some day, no longer
need her?

The sense of an end of things, chill and penetrating like an autumnal
wind, made all life seem bleak and grey for the moment. 'But, Franklin,
you will always be my friend. That is not changed,' she said. 'Please
tell me that nothing of that side of things is changed, dear Franklin.'

And now that sincerity in him, that truth-seeing and truth-speaking
quality that was his power, became suddenly direful. For though he
looked at her ever so gently and ever so tenderly, his eyes pierced her.
And, helplessly, he placed the truth before them both, saying: 'I'll
always be your friend, of course, dear Althea. You'll always be the most
beautiful thing I've had in my life; but what can I be in yours? I don't
belong over here, you know. I'll not be in your life any longer. How can
it not be changed? How will you stay my friend, dear Althea?'

The tears rolled down her cheeks. That he should see, and accept, and
still love her, made him seem dearer than ever before, while, in her
heart, she knew that he spoke the truth. 'Don't--don't, dear Franklin,'
she pleaded. 'You will be often with us. Don