“You must tell me, Chris,” the girl said gently.  “This mystery—­it is killing me.  I must know why we cannot be married.  Are we always to be this way?—­merely lovers, meeting often, it is true, and yet with the long absences between the meetings?  Is it all the world holds for you and me, Chris?  Are we never to be more to each other?  Oh, it is good just to love, I know—­you have made me madly happy; but one does get so hungry at times for something more!  I want more and more of you, Chris. I want all of you.  I want all our days to be together.  I want all the companionship, the comradeship, which cannot be ours now, and which will be ours when we are married—­” She caught her breath quickly.  “But we are never to be married.  I forgot.  And you must tell me why.”

The man raised his head and looked her in the eyes.  It was a way he had with whomever he talked, of looking them in the eyes.

“I have considered you, Lute,” he began doggedly.  “I did consider you at the very first.  I should never have gone on with it.  I should have gone away.  I knew it.  And I considered you in the light of that knowledge, and yet . . .  I did not go away.  My God! what was I to do?  I loved you.  I could not go away.  I could not help it.  I stayed.  I resolved, but I broke my resolves.  I was like a drunkard.  I was drunk of you.  I was weak, I know.  I failed.  I could not go away.  I tried.  I went away—­you will remember, though you did not know why.  You know now.  I went away, but I could not remain away.  Knowing that we could never marry, I came back to you.  I am here, now, with you.  Send me away, Lute.  I have not the strength to go myself.”

“But why should you go away?” she asked.  “Besides, I must know why, before I can send you away.”

“Don’t ask me.”

“Tell me,” she said, her voice tenderly imperative.

“Don’t, Lute; don’t force me,” the man pleaded, and there was appeal in his eyes and voice.

“But you must tell me,” she insisted.  “It is justice you owe me.”

The man wavered.  “If I do . . .” he began.  Then he ended with determination, “I should never be able to forgive myself.  No, I cannot tell you.  Don’t try to compel me, Lute.  You would be as sorry as I.”

“If there is anything . . . if there are obstacles . . . if this mystery does really prevent . . .”  She was speaking slowly, with long pauses, seeking the more delicate ways of speech for the framing of her thought.  “Chris, I do love you.  I love you as deeply as it is possible for any woman to love, I am sure.  If you were to say to me now ‘Come,’ I would go with you.  I would follow wherever you led.  I would be your page, as in the days of old when ladies went with their knights to far lands.  You are my knight, Chris, and you can do no wrong.  Your will is my wish.  I was once afraid of the censure of the world.  Now that you have come into my life I am no longer afraid.  I would laugh at the world and its censure for your sake—­for my sake too.  I would laugh, for I should have you, and you are more to me than the good will and approval of the world.  If you say ‘Come,’ I will—­”