nd nothing without you--if it means that I would rather die than leave
you--well, then I don't love you. But all the same, if love honestly
means that to you--I can't and won't go away." She put out her hand
again swiftly, and tightened her fingers on mine.

"It's a test, then. Is that it?" I demanded. "You want to go because
you're not sure?"

"I'm sure of what I feel," she broke in; "and more than that, I doubt if
I'm made so that I can ever feel more. No; that isn't why I want to go.
I'll go if you can let me, because--oh, I've got to say it,
Ambo!--because at heart I love freedom better than I love love--or you.
And there's something else. I'm afraid of--please try to understand
this, dear--I'm afraid of stuffiness for us both!"

"Stuffiness?"

"Sex _is_ stuffy, Ambo. The more people let it mess up their lives for
them, the stuffier they grow. It's really what you've been afraid of for
me--though you don't put it that way. But you hate the thought of people
saying--with all the muddy little undercurrents they stir up round such
things--that you and I have been passion's slaves. We haven't been--but
we might be; and suppose we were. It's the truth about us--not the
lies--that makes all the difference. You're you--and I'm I. It's because
we're worth while to ourselves that we're worth while to each other.
Isn't that true? But how long shall we be worth anything to ourselves or
to each other if we accept love as slavery, and get to feeling that we
can't face life, if it seems best, alone? Ambo, dear, do you see at all
what I'm driving at?"

Yes; I was beginning to see. Miss Goucher's desolate words came
suddenly back to me: "Susan doesn't need _you_."

X

Next morning, while I supposed her at work in her room, Susan slipped
down the back stairs and off through the garden. It was a heavy forenoon
for me, perhaps the bleakest and dreariest of my life. But it was a busy
forenoon for Susan. She began its activities by a brave intuitive
stroke. She entered the Egyptian tomb and demanded an interview with
Gertrude. What is stranger, she carried her point--as I was presently to
be made aware.

Miss Goucher tapped at the door, entered, and handed me a card. So
Gertrude had changed her mind; Gertrude had come. I stared, foolishly
blank, at the card between, my fingers, while Miss Goucher by perfect
stillness effaced herself, leaving me to my lack of thought.

"Well," I finally muttered, "sooner or later----"

Mis