He groaned. "I was afraid you would say that," he admitted. "And I suppose you are right."

"Yes, I think I am. If your father needs you and wants you, and if your career will not be influenced for harm, I--well, I think you should do as he wishes."

"And my own wishes shouldn't count, I suppose?"

"Why, no, not in this case; not much, at any rate. Do you think they should?"

"Perhaps not. But--but yours?"

"Mine?"

"Yes. Do YOU want me to go away?" He leaned forward in his chair and repeated earnestly: "Do you, Mary?"

She looked at him and her eyes fell before the look in his. Her heart began to beat quickly and she glanced apprehensively toward the partly opened door. He rose and closed it. Then he came close to her.

"Mary," he said, earnestly, "do you know why this appeal of Dad's has. .h.i.t me so very hard? Why it is going to be so mighty difficult to say yes and leave here? It isn't because I hate to give up Harvard. I do hate that, of course, but I'd do it in a minute for Dad. It isn't that.

It's because I can't--I just can't think of leaving you. You have come to be--"

She interrupted. "Please don't," she begged. "Please!"

He went on, unheeding:

"You have come to mean about all there is in life for me," he declared.

"It isn't money or success or reputation I've been working and plugging for these last few months; it's just you. I didn't think so once--I used to think such things were just in books--but now I know. I love you, Mary."

Again she protested. "Oh, Crawford," she begged, "please!"

"No; you've got to hear me. It's true; I love you, and if you can care for me, I am going to marry you. Not now, of course; I've got my way to make first; but some day, if I live."

His teeth set in the determined fashion she had learned to know meant unswerving purpose. She looked up, saw the expression of his face, and for the instant forgot everything except her pride in him and her joy that she should have awakened such feelings. Then she remembered other things, things which she had spent many hours of many nights in debating and considering. As he bent toward her she evaded him and rose.

"Don't, Crawford! Please!" she said again. "You mustn't say such things to me. It isn't right that you should."

He looked puzzled. "Why not?" he asked. "At any rate, right or wrong, I must say them, Mary. I've been holding them in for months and now I've just got to say them. I love you and I want to marry you. May I?"

"Oh, no, Crawford! No! It is impossible."

"Impossible! Why? Is it--is it because you don't care for me? Don't you, Mary?"

She did not answer.

"Don't you?" he repeated. "Look at me! Can't you care, Mary?"

She was silent. But when he took a step toward her she raised her hands in protest.

"Please don't!" she pleaded. "No, you mustn't--we mustn't think--Oh, no, it is impossible!"

"It isn't impossible. If you love me as I do you it is the only possible thing in the world. Listen, dear--"

"Hush! I mustn't listen. Be sensible, Crawford! think! We are both so young. You are only beginning your studies. It will be years before you can--before you should consider marrying."

"But we can wait. I am willing to wait if you will only promise to wait for me. I'll work--HOW I'll work!--and--"

"I know, but we both have others besides ourselves to consider. I have my uncles. They have done everything for me. And you have your father.

Does he know--about me--about what you have just said to me?"

And now Crawford hesitated. Not long, but long enough for Mary to know what the answer would be before it was spoken.

"He doesn't know," she said. "I thought not. Do you think he will approve?"

"I hope he will. There is every reason why he should and absolutely none why he shouldn't. Of course he'll approve; he's sensible."

"Yes, but he may have plans of his own for you, and your marrying an Eastern girl may not be one of them. You have often told me how prejudiced he is against the East and Eastern people. He may disapprove strongly."

Crawford squared his shoulders. There was no hesitation or doubt in his next speech.

"If he does it will make no difference," he declared. "I care a whole lot for Dad and I'd do anything on earth for him--anything but the one thing, that is: I won't give you up--provided you care for me--for him or for anyone else. That's final."

He certainly looked as if it were. But Mary only shook her head. In the new thoughts and new imaginings which had come to her during the past winter there had been a vague foreshadowing of a possible situation somewhat like this. She had her answer ready.

"Oh, no, it isn't," she said. "You are his son, his only child, Crawford. He cares so much for you. You have often told me that, and--and I know he must. And you and he have been so happy together. Do you think I would be the cause of breaking that relationship?"

He waved the question aside and asked one of his own.

"Do you love me, Mary?" he asked.

"You mustn't ask me, Crawford. Write your father. Tell him everything.

Will you?"

"Yes, I will. I should have done it, anyway. If I go home, and I suppose I must, I shall tell him; it will be better than writing. But I want your answer before I go. Won't you give it to me?"

He looked very handsome and very manly, as he stood there pleading. But Mary had made up her mind.

"I can't, Crawford," she said. "Perhaps I don't know. I do know that it would not be right for me to say what you want me to say--now. Go home to your father; he needs you. Tell him everything and then--write me."

He looked at her, a long, long look. Then he nodded slowly.

"All right," he said; "I will. I will tell him that I mean to marry you.

If he says yes--as he will, I'm sure--then I'll write you that. If he says no, I'll write you that. But in either case, Mary Lathrop, I shall marry you just the same. Your own no will be the only thing that can prevent it. And now may I come and see you tomorrow evening?"

"Not tomorrow, Crawford. When will you start for home?"

"Sat.u.r.day, I think. May I come the day after tomorrow? Just to say good-by, you know."

Mary was troubled. She could not deny him and yet she was certain it would be better for them both if he did not come.

"Perhaps," she said doubtfully. "But only to say good-by. You must promise that."

There was a ring at the bell. Then Maggie, the maid, appeared to announce that the Howe motor car was waiting at the curb. A few moments later Mary was in her room adjusting her new hat before the mirror.