“I am sorry, Carlotta,” he said.  “I couldn’t do it, though I’d give you my heart to cut up into pieces if it could make you happy.  Maybe I would risk it for myself.  But I can’t go back on my father, even for you.”

“Then you don’t love me.”  Carlotta’s rare and lovely tenderness was burned away on the instant in a quick blaze of anger.

“Yes I do, dear.  It is because I love you that I can’t do it.  I have to give you the best of me, not the worst of me.  And the best of me belongs in Dunbury.  I wish I could make you understand.  And I wish with all my heart that, since I can’t come to you, you could care enough to come to me.  But I am not going to ask it—­not now anyway.  I haven’t the right.  Perhaps in two years time, if you are still free, I shall; but not now.  It wouldn’t be fair.”

“Two years from now, and long before, I shall be married,” said Carlotta with a sharp little metallic note in her voice.  She was trying to keep from crying but he did not know that and winced both at her words and tone.

“That must be as it will,” he answered soberly.  “I cannot do any differently.  I would if I could.  It—­it isn’t so easy to give you up.  Oh, Carlotta!  I love you.”

And suddenly, unexpectedly to himself and Carlotta, he had her in his arms and was covering her face with kisses.  Carlotta’s cheeks flamed.  She was no longer a lily, but a red, red rose.  Never in her life had she been so frightened, so ecstatic.  With all her dainty, capricious flirtations she had always deliberately fenced herself behind barriers.  No man had ever held her or kissed her like this, the embrace and kisses of a lover to whom she belonged.

“Phil!  Don’t, dear—­I mean, do, dear—­I love you,” she whispered.

But her words brought Phil back to his senses.  His arms dropped and he drew away, ashamed, remorseful.  He was no saint.  According to his way of thinking a man might kiss a girl now and then, under impulsion of moonshine or mischief, but lightly always, like thistledown.  A man didn’t kiss a girl as he had just kissed Carlotta unless he had the right to marry her.  It wasn’t playing straight.

“I’m sorry, Carlotta.  I didn’t mean to,” he said miserably.

“I’m not.  I’m glad.  I think way down in my heart I’ve always wanted you to kiss me, though I didn’t know it would be like that.  I knew your kisses would be different, because you are different.”

“How am I different?” Phil’s voice was humble.  In his own eyes he seemed pitifully undifferent, precisely like all the other rash, intemperate, male fools in the world.

“You are different every way.  It would take too long to tell you all of them, but maybe you are chiefly different because I love you and I don’t love the rest.  Except for Daddy.  I’ve never loved anybody but myself before, and when you kissed me I just seemed to feel my meness going right out of me, as if I stopped belonging to myself and began to belong to you forever and ever.  It scared me but—­I liked it.”