"Not so--"

"Not so morbid as when I was here last summer," he helped her out. "Not
by any means. Are you going to marry him, Mary?" The question had only a
civil emphasis, but a warmer tone informed it. Mary grew pink under the
morning light, and Jerome went on: "Yes, I have a perfect right to talk
about it, I don't travel three thousand miles every summer to ask you to
marry me without earning some claim to frankness. I mentioned that to
Marshby himself. We met at the station, you remember, the day I came. We
walked down together. He spoke about my sketching, and I told him I had
come on my annual pilgrimage, to ask Mary Brinsley to marry me."

"Jerome!"

"Yes, I did. This is my tenth pilgrimage. Mary, will you marry me?"

"No," said Mary, softly, but as if she liked him very much. "No,
Jerome."

Wilmer squeezed a tube on his palette and regarded the color frowningly.
"Might as well, Mary," said he. "You'd have an awfully good time in
Paris."

She was perfectly still, watching him, and he went on:

"Now you're thinking if Marshby gets the consulate you'll be across the
water anyway, and you could run down to Paris and see the sights. But it
wouldn't be the same thing. It's Marshby you like, but you'd have a
better time with me."

"It's a foregone conclusion that the consulship will be offered him,"
said Mary. Her eyes were now on the path leading through the garden and
over the wall to the neighboring house where Marshby lived.

"Then you will marry and go with him. Ah, well, that's finished. I
needn't come another summer. When you are in Paris, I can show you the
boulevards and cafes."

"It is more than probable he won't accept the consulship."

"Why?" He held his palette arrested in mid-air and stared at her.

"He is doubtful of himself--doubtful whether he is equal to so
responsible a place."

"Bah! it's not an embassy."

"No; but he fancies he has not the address, the social gifts--in fact,
he shrinks from it." Her face had taken on a soft distress; her eyes
appealed to him. She seemed to be confessing, for the other man,
something that might well be misunderstood. Jerome, ignoring the flag of
her discomfort, went on painting, to give her room for confidence.

"Is it that old plague-spot?" he asked. "Just what aspect does it bear
to him? Why not talk freely about it?"

"It is the old remorse. He misunderstood his brother when they two were
left alone in the world. He forced the boy out of evil