removing
his hat.

For a moment Beth faced him silently, her color coming and going in
rapid alternations. She had never seemed more beautiful than now, in
her mood of worry and courage.

"Thank you for waiting," she said to him faintly, her heart beating
wildly in her bosom, "I felt as if I had the right--felt it only
right--won't you please tell me what I have done?"

It was not an easy matter for Van to hold his own, to check an impulse
utterly incontinent, utterly weak, that urged him fairly to the edge of
surrender. But his nature was one of intensity, and inasmuch as he had
loved intensely, he distrusted now with equal force.

"What you have done?" he repeated. "I'm sure I can't tell you of
anything that you do not know yourself. What do you wish me to say?"

"I don't know! I don't know," she told him honestly. "I thought if I
asked you--asked you like this--you'd tell me what is the matter."

"There's nothing the matter."

"But there is!" she said. "Why not be frank? I know that you're in
trouble. Perhaps you blame----"

"I told you once that taking trouble and having trouble supply all the
fun I have," he interrupted. "The man without trouble became extinct
before he was born."

"Oh, please don't jest," she begged him earnestly. "You and I were
friends--I'm sure we were friends--but now----"

"Now, if we are not, do you think the fault is mine?"

He, too, was white, for the struggle was great in his soul.

"It isn't mine!" she said. "I want to say that! I had to say that. I
stopped you--just to say that." She blushed to say so much, but she
met his stern gaze fearlessly with courage in her eyes.

He could not understand her in the least, unless she still had more to
do, and thought to hold his friendship, perhaps for Searle's
protection. He forced himself to probe in that direction.

"And you'd wish to go on being friends?"

It was a hard question--hard to ask and hard to answer. She colored
anew, but she did not flinch. Her love was too vast, too strong and
elemental to shrink at a crucial moment.

"I valued your friendship--very much," she confessed steadily. "Why
shouldn't I wish it to continue?"

It was aggravating to have her seem so honest, so splendid, so womanly
and fine, when he thought of that line in her letter. He could not
spare himself or her in the agitation of his nature.

"Your way and mine are different," he said. "My arts in deceit were
neglected, I'