"There are reasons--I may not tell you. But if I might, you would--would
take me to my uncle's. I can not marry you!"

"That is what conventionality bids you say now," I replied. And then I
gathered myself together and in a tone that made me hate myself as I
heard it, I added slowly, each word sharp and distinct: "But what will
conventionality bid you say to-morrow morning, as we drive down crowded
Fifth Avenue, after a night in this brougham?"

I could not see her, for she fell back into the darkness as sharply as if
I had struck her with all my force full in the face. But I could feel the
effect of my words upon her. I paused, not because I expected or wished
an answer, but because I had to steady myself--myself, not my purpose; my
purpose was inflexible. I would put through what we had begun, just as I
would have held her and cut off her arm with my pocket-knife if we had
been cast away alone, and I had had to do it to save her life. She was
not competent to decide for herself. Every problem that had ever faced
her had been decided by others for her. Who but me could decide for her
now? I longed to plead with her, longed to let her see that I was not
hard-hearted, was thinking of her, was acting for her sake as much as for
my own. But I dared not. "She would misunderstand," said I to myself. "She
would think you were weakening."

Full fifteen minutes of that frightful silence before she said: "I will go
where you wish." And she said it in a tone that makes me wince as I recall
it.

I called my partner's address up through the tube. Again that frightful
silence, then she was trying to choke back the sobs. A few words I caught:
"They have broken my will--they have broken my will."

* * * * *

My partner lived in a big, gray-stone house that stood apart and commanded
a noble view of the Hudson and the Palisades. It was, in the main, a
reproduction of a French chateau, and such changes as the architect had
made in his model were not positively disfiguring, though amusing. There
should have been trees and shrubbery about it, but--"As Mrs. B. says," Joe
had explained to me, "what's the use of sinking a lot of cash in a house
people can't see?" So there was not a bush, not a flower. Inside--One day
Ball took me on a tour of the art shops. "I've got a dozen corners and
other big bare spots to fill," said he. "Mrs. B. hates to give up money,
haggles over every article. I'm going to put the