“T-to each other?”

“Of course,” she said faintly.  “Do you think I’d care whom you are going to marry if it wasn’t I?  Do you think I’d discuss my own marital intentions with you if you did not happen to be vitally concerned?”

“Do you expect to marry me?” he gasped.

“I—­I don’t want to:  but I’ve got to.”

He stood petrified for an instant, then with a wild look began to gather up his tools.

She watched him with the sickening certainty that if he got away she could never survive the years of suspense until his inevitable return.  A mad longing to get the worst over seized her.  She knew the worst, knew what Fate held for her.  And she desired to get it over—­have the worst happen—­and be left to live out the shattered remains of her life in solitude and peace.

“If—­if we’ve got to marry,” she began unsteadily, “why not g-get it over quickly—­and then I don’t mind if you go away.”

She was quite mad:  that was certain.  He hastily flung some brushes into his tool kit, then straightened up and gazed at her with deep compassion.

“Would you mind,” she asked timidly, “getting somebody to come in and marry us, and then the worst will be over, you see, and we need never, never see each other again.”

He muttered something soothing and began tying up some rolls of wall paper.

“Won’t you do what I ask?” she said pitifully.  “I-I am almost afraid that—­if you go away without marrying me I could not live and endure the—­the certainty of your return.”

He raised his head and surveyed her with deepest pity.  Mad—­quite mad!  And so young—­so exquisite... so perfectly charming in body!  And the mind darkened forever....  How terrible!  How strange, too; for in the pure-lidded eyes he seemed to see the soft light of reason not entirely quenched.

Their eyes encountered, lingered; and the beauty of her gaze seemed to stir him to the very wellspring of compassion.

“Would it make you any happier to believe—­to know,” he added hastily, “that you and I were married?”

“Y-yes, I think so.”

“Would you be quite happy to believe it?”

“Yes—­if you call that happiness.”

“And you would not be unhappy if I never returned?”

“Oh, no, no!  I—­that would make me—­comparatively—­happy!”

“To be married to me, and to know you would never again see me?”

“Yes.  Will you?”

“Yes,” he said soothingly.  And yet a curious little throb of pain flickered in his heart for a moment, that, mad as she undoubtedly was, she should be so happy to be rid of him forever.

He came slowly across the room to the table on which she was sitting.  She drew back instinctively, but an ominous ripping held her.

“Are you going for a license and a—­a clergyman?” she asked.

“Oh, no,” he said gently, “that is not necessary.  All we have to do is to take each other’s hands—­so——­”