you had your way."

She could not meet his eyes.

"I see you understand," said he earnestly. "That's a good sign."

"Yes, I do understand," said she. Her voice was low and her head
was still hanging. "I'm glad you've said this. I--I respect you
for it."

"Don't fret about me," said he curtly. "Fret about your own
melancholy case. What do your impulses of decent feeling amount
to, anyway? An inch below the surface you're all for the other
sort of thing--the cheap and nasty. If you could choose this
minute you'd take the poorest of those drawing-room marionettes
before the finest real man, if he didn't know how to wear his
clothes or had trouble with his grammar."

She felt that there was more than a grain of truth in this; at any
rate, denial would be useless, as his tone was the tone of settled
conviction.

"We've made a false start," proceeded he. He rose, lighted a
cigarette. "We're going to start all over again. I'll tell you
what I'm going to do about it in a day or two."

And he strolled away to the landing. She saw him presently enter a
canoe; under his powerful, easy stroke it shot away, to disappear
behind the headland. She felt horribly lonely and oppressed--as if
she would never see him again. "He's quite capable of leaving me