“I am thinking of you, of my duty to you, of your happiness.”

She realized at last some terrible hidden import in all that he had been trying to confess.  A shrouded mysterious Shape of Evil was suddenly disclosed as already standing on the threshold of the House of Life which they were about to enter together.  The night being warm, she had not used her shawl.  Now she threw it over her head and gathered the weblike folds tightly under her throat as though she were growing cold.  The next instant, with a swift movement, she tore it from her head and pushed herself as far as possible away from him out into the moonlight; and she sat there looking at him, wild with distrust and fear.

He caught sight of her face.

“Oh, I am doing wrong,” he cried miserably.  “I must not tell you this!”

He sprang up and hurried over to the pavement and began to walk to and fro.  He walked to and fro a long time; and after waiting for him to return, she came quickly and stood in his path.  But when he drew near her he put out his hand.

“I cannot!” he repeated, shaking his head and turning away.

Still she waited, and when he approached and was turning away again, she stepped forward and laid on his arm her quivering finger-tips.

“You must,” she said.  “You shall tell me!” and if there was anger in her voice, if there was anguish in it, there was the authority likewise of holy and sovereign rights.  But he thrust her all but rudely away, and going to the lower end of the pavement, walked there backward and forward with his hat pulled low over his eyes—­walked slowly, always more slowly.  Twice he laid his hand on the gate as though he would have passed out.  At last he stopped and looked back to where she waited in the light, her face set immovably, commandingly, toward him.  Then he came back and stood before her.

The moon, now sinking low, shone full on his face, pale, sad, very quiet; and into his eyes, mournful as she had never known any eyes to be.  He had taken off his hat and held it in his hand, and a light wind blew his thick hair about his forehead and temples.  She, looking at him with senses preternaturally aroused, afterwards remembered all this.

Before he began to speak he saw rush over her face a look of final entreaty that he would not strike her too cruel a blow.  This, when he had ceased speaking, was succeeded by the expression of one who has received a shock beyond all imagination.  Thus they stood looking into each other’s eyes; then she shrank back and started toward the house.

He sprang after her.

“You are leaving me!” he cried horribly.

She walked straight on, neither quickening nor slackening her pace nor swerving, although his body began unsteadily to intercept hers.

He kept beside her.

“Don’t!  Isabel!” he prayed out of his agony.  “Don’t leave me like this—!”