s" would cheapen the quality and deny the finality of her
love for him; "no" would be an acceptance of the doom and tragedy she
saw shadowing his eyes. She did not answer.

"You see, you dare not answer that," he went on. "I suppose I ought to
tell you the story. But I won't. It's long, and not a pretty story at
all. But this much I will tell you. I gave one woman all I had to
give. She threw it away--and laughed at me. I have nothing more."

She took it very bravely and very quietly, as it seemed to him. He
felt a certain admiration. There was good blood in the girl. Her
father must have been worth knowing. His thoughts would have taken a
different direction--would have been nothing so complacent if he had
known just what she was thinking. His speech, terrifying at first, had
actually renewed a hope that had fallen very low. She did not believe
a word of what he had said, that is, of his having nothing more to
give. Whenever did woman believe any such thing as that, no matter how
solemnly, on what stoutest oaths, with what tragic air a man has told
it to her? Love is not love that doubts its own compelling power. And
Marion, gazing fondly at Philip now, felt somewhat as a mother feels
who smilingly indulges some childhood tragedy of her boy, knowing that
it will pass as the cloud upon an April sky. If this was the worst he
had to say to her--

But it was not the worst. Philip felt an intense relief to see her
accept the situation with such unexpected calm. He admired her
consciously now,--for her intelligence. He began to think that he
might almost take her hand, and thank her, as he would thank a man for
doing him a service, however mistakenly. But something held him back
from that folly. He wondered a little at her silence, and it was by
way of breaking it before it should become embarrassing that he
searched for something safe and commonplace to say to her.

"It was my own fault, you know, that I was injured."

"Why your own fault?"

"I was in a bad humor. I lost my self-control. And I got what I
deserved."

He thought she would ask him why he had been in a bad humor, and he
purposed to say that he was raging in discontent, longing for the
white road again. It would be safe enough now, no doubt, to tell her
in this fashion that if ever she should come to the Park again she
would not find him there. But his words had suggested something
entirely different to her mind.

"What are you going to do with him?" s