Arthur was silent.  They were seated now, side by side, and he was, somewhat timidly, holding one of her hands.

“He was so simple and so honest—­such a man!” she continued.  “Does it hurt you, dear, for me to talk about him?”

“No—­no,” he stammered, “I came to you—­to—­to—­talk about him.”  Then, desperately, seizing her other hand and holding both tightly, “Janet, would it make any difference with you if I—­if I—­no—­What am I saying?  Janet, I release you from our engagement.  I—­I—­have no prospects,” he rushed on.  “Father—­They got round him and wheedled him into leaving everything to the college—­to Tecumseh.  I have nothing—­I must give you up.  I can’t ask you to wait—­and—­”

He could not go on.  He longed for the throbbing, human touch that beauty of hers could make so thrilling.  But she slowly drew away her hands.  Her expression made him say: 

“What is it, Janet?  What have I said that hurt you?”

“Did you come,” she asked, in a strange, distant voice, “because you thought your not having money would make a difference with me?”

“No,” he protested, in wild alarm.  “It was only that I feel I—­”

“You feel that there could be a question of money between us?” she interrupted.

“Not between us, Janet,” he said eagerly; “but there is your—­your mother.”

“I beg you,” she replied coldly, “not to speak of mamma in that way to me, even if you have such unjust thoughts of her.”

Arthur looked at her uncertainly.  He had an instinct, deep down, that there was something wrong—­something in her that he was not fathoming.  But in face of that cloud-dwelling beauty, he could only turn and look within himself.  “I beg your pardon, dear,” he said.  “You know so little of the practical side of life.  You live so apart from it, so high above it, that I was afraid I’d be doing wrong by you if I did not put that side of it before you, too.  But in the bottom of my heart I knew you would stand by me.”

She remained cold.  “I don’t know whether I’m glad or sorry, Arthur, that you let me see into your real self.  I’ve often had doubts about our understanding each other, about our two natures being in that perfect harmony which makes the true marriage.  But I’ve shut out those doubts as disloyal to you.  Now, you’ve forced me to see they were only too true!”

“What do you mean, Janet?  Of course, I’m not good enough for you—­no one is, for that matter; but I love you, and—­Do you care for me, Janet?”

“Yes,” she replied mournfully.  “But I must conquer it.  O Arthur, Arthur!” Her voice was tremulous now, and her strange hazel eyes streamed sorrowful reproach.  “How could you think sordidly of what was sacred and holy to me, of what I thought was holy to us both?  You couldn’t, if you had been the man I imagined you were.”