“Oh, you know how I’ve felt about it.  How I’ve talked about traveling light and not letting my life get cluttered up.  But that isn’t really the thing that’s changed.  I’ve never been willing to pay, in liberty and leisure, for things I didn’t want.  The only difference is that there’s something now that I do want.  And I shan’t shirk paying for it.  I want you to understand that.”

He stressed the word you in a way that puzzled John a little, but what he went on to say after a moment’s hesitation made his meaning clear.

“That’s preliminary.  You’ll find that Mary’s misgivings—­she’s not without them and they won’t be easy to overcome—­aren’t the same as ours.  Those aren’t the things that she’s afraid of.  She’s afraid of taking my liberty away from me.  She won’t be able to believe, easily, that my old vagabond ways have lost their importance for me; that they’re a phase I can afford to outgrow.  She’s likely to think I’ve sacrificed something essential in going regularly to work, giving lessons, writing popular songs.  Of course, it will rest mostly with me to satisfy her that that isn’t true, but any help you can give her along that line, I’ll be grateful for.  Last night she seemed convinced—­far enough to give me her promise but...”

Words faded away there into an uneasy silence.  John, looking intently into the man’s face, saw him wrestling, he thought, with same idea, some fear, some sort of nightmare horror which with all the power of his will he was struggling not to give access to.  He pressed his clenched hands against his eyes.

“What is it?” John asked sharply.  “What’s the matter?”

“It’s nothing,” March said between his teeth.  “She promised, as I said.  She told me I needn’t be afraid.”  Then he came to his feet with a gesture of surrender.  “Will you let me see her?” he asked John.  “Now.  Just for a minute before I go.”

John, by that time, was on his feet, too, staring.  “What do you mean, man?  Afraid of what?  What is it you’re afraid of?”

March didn’t answer the question in words, but for a moment he met her father’s gaze eye to eye and what John saw was enough.

“Good God!” he whispered.  “Why—­why didn’t you ...”  Then turning swiftly toward the door.  “Come along.”

“I’m really not afraid,” March panted as he followed him up the stairs, “because of her promise.  It was just a twinge.”

Her door at the foot of the stairs which led to the music room stood wide open, but both men came to an involuntary breathless pause outside it.  Then John went in, looked for a brief moment at the figure that slept so gently in the narrow little bed, gave a reassuring nod to March who had hung back in the doorway, a nod that invited him in; then turned away and covered his face with his hands just for one steadying instant until the shock of that abominable fear should pass away.