“Syb, Syb, can’t you love me just a little?”

There was a winning charm in his manner.  Nature had endowed him liberally with virile fascination.  My hard uncongenial life had rendered me weak.  He was drawing me to him; he was irresistible.  Yes; I would be his wife.  I grew dizzy, and turned my head sharply backwards and took a long gasping breath, another and another, of that fresh cool air suggestive of the grand old sea and creak of cordage and bustle and strife of life.  My old spirit revived, and my momentary weakness fled.  There was another to think of than myself, and that was Harold.  Under a master-hand I would be harmless; but to this man I would be as a two-edged sword in the hand of a novice—­gashing his fingers at every turn, and eventually stabbing his honest heart.

It was impossible to make him see my refusal was for his good.  He was as a favourite child pleading for a dangerous toy.  I desired to gratify him, but the awful responsibility of the after-effects loomed up and deterred me.

“Hal, it can never be.”

He dropped my hands and drew himself up.

I will not take your No till the morning.  Why do you refuse me?  Is it my temper?  You need not be afraid of that.  I don’t think I’d hurt you; and I don’t drink, or smoke, or swear very much; and I’ve never destroyed a woman’s name.  I would not stoop to press you against your will if you were like the ordinary run of women; but you are such a queer little party, that I’m afraid you might be boggling at some funny little point that could easily he wiped out.”

“Yes; it is only a little point.  But if you wipe it out you will knock the end out of the whole thing—­for the point is myself.  I would not suit you.  It would not he wise for you to marry me.”

“But I’m the only person concerned.  If you are not afraid for yourself, I am quite satisfied.”

We faced about and walked homewards in unbroken silence—­too perturbed to fall into our usual custom of chewing bush-leaves as we went.

I thought much that night when all the house was abed.  It was tempting.  Harold would he good to me, and would lift me from this life of poverty which I hated, to one of ease.  Should I elect to remain where I was, till the grave there was nothing before me but the life I was leading now:  my only chance of getting above it was by marriage, and Harold Beecham’s offer was the one chance of a lifetime.  Perhaps he could manage me well enough.  Yes; I had better marry him.

And I believe in marriage—­that is, I think it the most sensible and respectable arrangement for the replenishing of a nation which has yet been suggested.  But marriage is a solemn issue of life.  I was as suited for matrimony as any of the sex, but only with an exceptional helpmeet—­and Harold was not he.  My latent womanliness arose and pointed this out so plainly that I seized my pen and wrote: 

Dear Harold,