"There's so much that's your own fault," she returned, "and which you cover up by pretending that you don't like or want. You're as human as any one else. You make yourself believe you don't want things because you're stubborn and proud, but you do, you do."

"Under proper conditions," he admitted largely, "I might, yes."

"Under any conditions, in your heart you want them, we all want them; you're not different."

"Well, and what then?"

"You are not honest, that is what then."

"Well," he returned, "and what then?"

She was almost crying. "You exonerate yourself, you condone yourself, you say you would, you could, you will--some day, if--if thus and so.

You think some better condition is going to bring the confidence to be what nature meant you to be; yes, you do think it, you do, you do. But it has to grow out of yourself. I can tell you that, and when the time you think for comes, to be what you'd like to be, you'll have lost the power. I want to say it, I mean to say it, I want to hurt you, I hope my saying it can hurt you, so I can go away glad, glad I've hurt you.

There, I've said it; don't stop me, don't; I came to say it and I'm going back now."

He was breathing hard. "Oh, no," he said, "you're not." He glanced around. Then he stepped down from the gallery and turned. "Come, let yourself go, I'll steady you."

She hesitated, brushing some wet from her cheek with her hand. She did not know until then there had been tears.

"Come," he reiterated. It was the tone women, even Molly, obeyed.

She slipped down and he caught her and set her on her feet. "Pick up your dress," he said, "the gra.s.s is wet."

Everywhere, it seemed, there were couples strolling. Around to the right, by the side door, with its little, vine-covered pent-house, was a bench beneath a tree; Aunt Mandy and Mrs. Leroy aired their crocks and pans thereon. He led the way to it, spread out his handkerchief, and Alexina, gathering up her gleaming dress, sat down. The comical side of it must have occurred to him, the girl gathering up a dress fit for a princess, to sit there. He laughed, not an altogether humorous laugh.

"Ill.u.s.trative of the true state of things, as it were," he said. "I proffer my lady a milk-bench."

A sob rose in her throat. "I hate you," she said hotly.

"That you bestow feeling of any sort, to such degree, is flattering,"

said he nastily.

"You're very rude."

"It puts us on a sort of equality, and establishes me in my own self-respect, so to speak, to have face to be rude to _une grande dame_--"

"You're not honest, and you know it, and it's hurting you while you're doing it."

"Just so," said William, after the fashion of his father. "Where are you going?"

"To the house."

"Come back."

"I won't. I've said what I had to say."

He came after her. "And now you shall listen." They stood and looked at each other. Her eyes measured him with some scorn, his met the look squarely. "I care for you as the only thing worth while in life," he said.

"I've not so much pride left you need think you have to say that to save it," she burst forth.

"You are the one not true now. You know it, you have known it right along. I hadn't even the arts of your world to know how to conceal it."

"My world!" said Alexina.

"Very well; let's both be honest. I've fought it because I've had enough decency to see the impossibility--oh, my G.o.d!--what's the use being fool enough to talk about it. I haven't one cent on earth that's my own; I'm worse than a beggar, if we are going to be quite honest about matters, since I am a debtor."

"Oh," said Alexina; "oh, don't."

"I fought it out, or thought I had, down there in the glades, and then got up and came back because I couldn't let you go--without--"

"I'm glad," said Alexina, "I'm glad."

"You don't know what you're saying."

"I do know," said the girl. "I'm glad, I'm glad--"

"Alexina!"

"I'm glad."

Her young face was white and solemn in the moonlight, but her eyes came up to his with a splendid courage. "I'm glad," she repeated.

It might have been a moment, an hour, a day, an aeon, the two looked at each other. Then their hands went out to each other, for very need of human touch in the great awe of it.

When he spoke both were trembling.

"Will you wait?" he asked her. "It may be long." But the note in his voice was new. The fight even then was begun.

"Yes," she told him, grave eyes meeting grave eyes, for young love is solemn. Then he drew her to him and sight and sound went out, and the solid round earth was spurned. And yet they were but two of the long, unending line, mounting thus to G.o.d and His heaven, for it is for this we are come into the world.

Suddenly Alexina slipped her hands from his and fled.

Molly was on the porch with Mr. Jonas. A toy harness from the cotillion favors jangled on her dress. She had sunk laughing on a bench to get breath.

"Yes," she told Mr. Jonas, "we go in the morning, to Cannes Brulee."

Alexina was coming up on the porch and to Molly. Straight she slipped to her knees and her arms went around her mother.

"Dear me, Malise," said Molly.

The head of the girl hid itself in the curve of the mother's neck and shoulder.

"Dear me, Malise," said Molly, "you're such a child."

THE END