at he felt for her what they called love? With all his soul
he wished he could take her in his arms and say, "Jane, I love you." But
still he knew that his words would not ring true. More than that, Jane
would know it too. Besides, might not her feeling for him be of the
same quality? What could he say in this hour which he recognised to be
a crisis in their lives? Sick at heart and oppressed with his feeling
of loneliness and impotence, he could only look at her in speechless
misery. Then he thought she, too, was suffering, the same misery was
filling her heart. She looked utterly spent and weary.

"Jane," he said desperately. She started. She, too, had been thinking.
"Scuddy is in love with Helen, Macleod is in love with Ethel. I wish to
God I had fallen in love with you and you with me. Then we would have
something to look forward to. Do you know, Jane, I am like a boy leaving
home? We are going to drift apart. Others will come between us."

"No, Larry," cried Jane with quick vehemence. "Not that. You won't let
that come."

"Can we help it, Jane?" Then her weariness appealed to him. "It is a
shame to keep you up. I have given you a hard day, Jane." She shook her
head. "And there is no use waiting. We can only say good-bye." He rose
from his chair. Should he kiss her, he asked himself. He had had no
hesitation in kissing Helen an hour ago. That seemed a light thing to
him, but somehow he shrank from offering to kiss Jane. If he could only
say sincerely, "Jane, I love you," then he could kiss her, but this he
could not say truly. Anything but perfect sincerity he knew she would
detect; and she would be outraged by it. Yet as he stood looking down
upon her pale face, her wavering smile, her quivering lips, he was
conscious of a rush of pity and of tenderness almost uncontrollable.

"Good-bye, Jane; God keep you always, dear, dear Jane." He held her
hands, looking into the deep blue eyes that looked back at him so
bravely. He felt that he was fast losing his grip upon himself, and he
must hurry away.

"Good-bye, Larry," she said simply.

"Good-bye," he said again in a husky voice. Abruptly he turned and left
her and passed out through the door.

Sore, sick at heart, he stumbled down the steps. "My God," he cried,
"what a fool I am! Why didn't I kiss her? I might have done that at
least."

He stood looking at the closed door, struggling against an almost
irresistible impulse to return and take her in his arms. Di