“Have I not said that you are—­the obstacle?  Haven’t her controls told her that?  If not, why did she telegraph to me when she did?” Then, as they turned from the park corner and made towards Riverside Drive, something in her changed.

“Must we talk this out whenever we meet?  You said once that you would teach me to play.  Ah, teach me now!  I need it!”

And though he turned and twisted back toward the subject, she was pure girl for the next hour.  The river breezes blew sparkle into her eyes; the morning intoxicated her tongue.  She chattered of the trees, the water, the children on the benches, the gossiping old women.  She made him stop to buy chestnuts of an Italian vendor, she led him toward his tales of the Philippines.  He plunged into the Islands like a white Othello, charming a super-white Desdemona.  It was his story of the burning of Manila which brought him back to the vexation in his mind.

“That yarn seemed to make a very small hit last night,” he said, turning suddenly upon her.

“I didn’t like it so much last night,” she answered frankly.

“What was the matter?” he asked.  “Why were you so far away?  Were you afraid of Mrs. Markham?  I felt like the young man of a summer flirtation calling in the winter.  What was it?”

“I don’t know,” she answered.

“No—­tell me.”

“There wasn’t any reason.  I liked you last night as I always like you.  But we were far away.  Shall I tell you how it seemed to me?  I was like an actress on the stage, and you like a man in the audience.  I was speaking to you—­a part.  In no way could you answer me.  In no way could I answer you directly.  We moved near to each other, but in different worlds.  It was something like that.”

“I suppose”—­bitterly—­“your Aunt Paula had nothing to do with that?”

“You must like Aunt Paula if you are to like me,” she warned.  “Yet that may have something to do with it.  I am wonderfully influenced by what she thinks—­as is right.”

“Then it’s coming to a fight between me and your Aunt Paula?  For I’ll do even that.”

“Must we go all over it again?  Oh like me, like me, and give me a rest from it!  I think of nothing but this all day—­why do you make it harder?  I do not know if I can renounce and still have you in my life.  Won’t you wait until I know?  It will be time enough then!”

“‘Renounce,’” he quoted.  “Then you know that there is something to renounce—­and that means you love me!” So giddy had he become with the surge of his passion that his hands trembled on the steering-wheel.  Afraid of losing all muscular control, he brought the automobile to a full stop at the roadside.  Her sapphirine eyes were shining, her hands lay inert in her lap, her lips quivered softly.

“Have I ever denied it—­can I ever deny it to you?”

The pure accident of location gave him opportunity for what he did next.  For they were in one of those country lanes of Upper Manhattan which, though enclosed by the greatest city, seem still a part of remote country.  Heavy branches of autumn foliage guarded the road to right and left; from end to end of the passage was neither vehicle nor foot-passenger.  One faculty, standing unmoved in the storm of emotions which had overwhelmed him, perceived this.