“But that such a thing should be offered to me because I’m too good to love a man honestly....  You see, I’m none of the things you think I am, Graham.  Nor that you want me to be.  Not white, not innocent.  Not a ‘good’ woman even, let alone an angel.  That’s what makes it so—­preposterous.”

He had been staring at her, speechless, horrified.  But at this it was as if he understood.  “I ought not to have worried you to-day,” he said, suddenly gentle.  “I know how terribly overwrought you are.  I meant—­I only meant to make things easier.  I’m going away now.  I’ll send Rush to you.  He’ll come at once.  Do you mind being alone till then?”

She answered slowly and with an appearance of patient reasonableness, “It’s not that.  It’s not what Rush calls shell-shock.  There is many a shabby little experimental flirt who has managed to keep intact an-innocence which I don’t possess.  That is the simple-physiological truth.”

Then, after a silence, with a gasp, “I’m not mad.  But I think I shall be if you go on looking at me like that.  Won’t you please go?”

CHAPTER XXIII

THE TERROR

Graham Stannard made his well-meant but disastrous proposal to Mary at half past five or so on a Friday afternoon.  It was a little more than twenty-four hours later, just after dark on Saturday evening, that she came in, unheralded, more incredibly like a vision than ever, upon Anthony March in his secret lair above the grocery.

He was sitting at his work-table scoring a passage in the third act of The Dumb Princess for the wood-wind choir when her knock, faint as it was, breaking in upon the rhythm of his theme, caused his pen to leap away from the paper and his heart to skip a beat.  But had it actually been a knock upon his door?  Such an event was unlikely enough.

He uttered a tentative and rather incredulous “Come in” as one just awakened speaks, humoring the illusion of a dream.

But the door opened and the Dumb Princess stood there, pallid, wistful, just as she had looked before her true lover climbed the precarious ivy to her tower and tore away the spell that veiled her.

March sat debating with himself,—­or so it seemed to him afterward; it was a matter of mere seconds, of course,—­why, since she was a vision, did she not look as she had on one of the occasions when he had seen her.  The night of the Whitman songs; the blazing afternoon in the hay field.

She was different to-night, and very clearly defined, in a plain little frock of dark blue—­yet not quite what one ordinarily meant by dark blue—­cut out in an unsoftened square around the neck, and a small hat of straw, the color of the warmer sort of bronze.  These austerities of garb, dissociated utterly with all his memories, gave her a poignancy that was almost unbearable.  Why had the vision of her come to him like that?