"I mean why did you come here--to Leatherhead?" she asked. "Why did you come? Did you know--"

I interrupted her. If ever I was to explain, or attempt to explain, I realized that it must be at that moment. She might listen to me then, before she had had time to think. Later I knew she would not.

"I knew you were here," I broke in, quickly. "I--we--your aunt knew and we came."

"But HOW did you know? Who told you?"

"The--we learned," I answered. "And we came."

It was a poor explanation--or none at all. She seemed to think it so.

And yet she seemed more hurt than offended.

"You came--yes," she said. "And you knew that I left Paris because--Oh, you knew that! I asked you not to follow me. You promised you would not."

I was ashamed, thoroughly ashamed and disgusted with myself for yielding to Hephzy's entreaties.

"No, no," I protested, "I did not promise. I did not promise, Frances."

"But you know I did not wish you to do it. I did not wish you to follow me to Paris, but you did it. I told you you would force me to give up my only means of earning money. You did force me to give it up. I gave it up to please you, for your sake, and now--"

"Did you?" I cried, eagerly. "Did you give it up for my sake, Frances?

Did you?"

"You know I did. You must know it. And now that I have done it, now that I have given up my opportunity and my--my self-respect and my one chance and come here to this--to this place, you--you--Oh, how could you!

Wasn't I unhappy enough before? And unhappy enough now? Oh, how could you!"

I was more ashamed than ever. I tried desperately to justify my action.

"But that was it," I persisted. "Don't you see? It was your happiness, the thought that you were unhappy which brought me here. I know--you told your aunt how unhappy you had been when you were with these people before. I know how much you disliked them. That was why I came. To ask you to give this up as you did the other. To come with us and BE happy.

I want you to come, Frances. Think! Think how much I must want you."

And, for the moment I thought this appeal had some effect. It seemed to me that her resolution was shaken, that she was wavering.

"You--you really want me?" she repeated.

"Yes. Yes, I can't tell you--I must not tell you how much I want you.

And your aunt--she wants you to come. She is here, too. She will tell you."

Her manner changed once more. The tone in which she spoke was different.

There were no signs of the wavering which I had noticed--or hoped I noticed.

"No," she said. "No. I shall not see my aunt. And I must not talk with you any longer. I asked you not to follow me here. You did it, in spite of my asking. Now, unless you wish to drive me away from here, as you did from Paris, you will leave me and not try to see me again. Oh, don't you see--CAN'T you see how miserable you are making me? And yet you talk of my happiness!"

"But you aren't happy here. ARE you happy?"

"I am happy enough. Yes, I am happy."

"I don't believe it. Are these Crippses kind to you?"

"Yes."

I didn't believe that, either, but I did not say so. Instead I said what I had determined to say, the same thing that I should have said before, in Mayberry and in Paris--if I could have mustered the courage and decency to say it.

"Frances," I said, "there is something else, something which may have a bearing on your happiness, or may not, I don't know. The night before you left us, at Mayberry, Herbert Bayliss came to me and asked my permission to marry you, if you were willing. He thought you were my niece--then. I said that--I said that, although of course I had no shadow of authority over you, I did care for your happiness. I cared for that a great deal. If you loved him I should certainly--"

"I see," she broke in, scornfully. "I see. He told you I was here. That is why you came. Did he send you to me to say--what you are trying to say?"

"Oh, no, no! You are mistaken. You wrong him, Frances. He did not do that. He's not that sort. He's a good fellow, an honorable man. And he does care for you. I know it. He cares greatly. He would, I am sure, make you a good husband, and if you care for him, he would do his best to make you happy, I--"

Again she interrupted. "One moment," she said, "Let me understand. Are you urging me to marry Herbert Bayliss?"

"No. I am not urging you, of course. But if you do care for him--"

"I do not."

"Oh, you don't love him?"

I wonder if there was relief in my tone. There should not have been, of course, but I fear there was.

"No, I do not--love him. He is a gentleman and I like him well enough, but not in that way. Please don't say any more."

"Very well. I only meant--Tell me this, if you will: Is there someone you do care for?"

She did not answer. I had offended her again. She had cause to be offended. What business was it of mine?

"I beg your pardon," I said, humbly. "I should not have asked that. I have no right to ask it. But if there is someone for whom you care in that way and he cares for you, it--"

"Oh, don't, don't! He doesn't."

"Then there is someone?"

She was silent. I tried to speak like a man, like the man I was pretending to be.

"I am glad to know it," I said. "If you care for him he must care for you. He cannot help it. I am sure you will be happy by and by. I can leave you here now with more--with less reluctance. I--"

I could not trust myself to go on, although I tried to do so. She answered, without looking at me.

"Yes," she said, "you can leave me now. I am safe and--and happy.

Good-by."

I took her hand.

"Good-by," I said. "Forgive me for coming. I shall not trouble you again. This time I promise. You may not wish to write us, but we shall write you. And I--I hope you won't forget us."

It was a lame conclusion and trite enough. She must have thought so.

"I shall not forget you," she said, simply. "And I will try to write occasionally. Yes, I will try. Now please go. Good-by."

I went, without looking back. I strode along the paths, scarcely noticing where I was going. As I neared the corner of the house I heard voices, loud voices. One of them, though it was not as loud as the others, was Hephzy's.