All at once she saw herself as she fancied he must see her—­a woman claiming the fulfilment of an old promise, the payment of a long-standing debt.  He must think she was making Evie a pretext in her fight for her own hand.  His vow—­if it was a vow—­had been the germ of so much romance in her mind that she ascribed it to a place in the foreground of his.  In all she was saying he would understand a demand on her part that he should make it good.  Very well, then; if he could do her such injustice, he must do it.  She could not permit the fear of it to inspire her with moral cowardice or deter her from doing what was right.

Nevertheless, it helped her to control her agitation to rise and ring for tea.  She felt the need of some commonplace action to assure herself and him that now, at last, she was outside the realm of the romantic.  He rose as she did, to forestall her at the bell; and as the servant entered with the tray, they moved together into the embrasure of the wide bay-window.  Down below the autumn colors were fading, while leaves, golden-yellow or blood-red, were being swirled along the ground.

“I had to do things out there”—­his nod was meant to indicate the direction of South America—­“in a somewhat high-handed manner, and I’ve acquired the habit of it.  If I’d stuck at difficulties I shouldn’t have got anywhere.”

She looked at him inquiringly, as though to ask the purport of the observation.

“You must see that I’m obliged to put this thing through—­on Evie’s account as much as mine.  After getting her to care for me, I can’t desert her now, whatever happens.”

“She wouldn’t suffer—­after a while.  She’d get over it.  You might not, but she—­”

“She shall not get over it, if I can help it.  How can you ask me to let her?”

“Only on the ground that you love her well enough.”

“Would you call that love?”

“In view of all the circumstances, it would be my idea of it.”

“Then it wouldn’t be mine.  The only love I understand is the love that fights for its object, in the face of all opposition.”

She looked at him a minute with what she tried to make a smile, but which became no more than a quivering of the lip and lashes.

“I hope you won’t fight,” she said, in a tone of appeal, “because it would have to be with me.  If anything could break my heart, that would.”

She knew how near to self-betrayal she had gone, but in her eagerness she was reckless of the danger.

“How do you know it wouldn’t break mine too?” he asked, with a scrutiny that searched her eyes.  “But there are times in life when men have just to fight—­and let their hearts be broken.  In becoming responsible for Evie’s happiness I’ve given a pledge from which I can’t withdraw—­”

“But that’s where you don’t understand her—­”

“Possibly; but it’s where I understand myself.”

“Tea is served, miss,” the maid said, coming forward to where they talked in undertones.  At the same minute there was a shuffling at the door and Wayne entered from his drive.  Ford would have gone forward to help him, but she put out her hand and stopped him.