“And you allowed it?”

“As you see.”

“Didn’t you know that I should have to take that for a signal?”

“I’ve never given you to understand that a signal wouldn’t come—­if you required one.”

“No; but I hoped—­” She broke off, continuing to gaze at the fire.  “Do you remember,” she began again—­“do you remember telling me—­that evening on the shore of Lake Champlain—­just before you went away—­that if ever I needed your life, it would be at my disposal?—­to do with as I chose?”

“I do.”

“Then I’m going to claim it.”  She did not look up, but she heard him change his position in his chair.  “I shouldn’t do it if there was any other way.  I’m sure you understand that.  Don’t you?” she insisted, glancing at him for an answer.

“I know you wouldn’t do it, unless you were convinced there was a reason.”

“I’ve tried to be just to you, and to see things from your point of view. 
I do; I assure you.  If I were in your position I should feel as you do. 
But I’m not in your position.  I’m in one of great responsibility, toward
Evie and toward her friends.”

“I don’t see what you owe to them.”

[Illustration:  Again there was a long silence.]

“I owe them the loyalty that every human being owes to every other.”

“To every other—­except me.”

“I’m loyal to you, at least, whoever else may not be.  But it wouldn’t be loyalty if I let you marry Evie.  I’m going to ask you—­not to do it—­to go away—­to leave her alone—­to go—­for good.”

There was a long silence.  When he spoke, it was hoarsely but otherwise without change of tone.

“Is that what you meant?—­just now?”

“Yes.  That’s what I meant.”

“Do you intend me to get out of New York, to go back to the South—?”

She lifted her hand in protestation.

“I’m not giving orders or making conditions.  New York is large.  There’s room in it for you and Evie, too.”

“I dare say.  One doesn’t require much space to break one’s heart in.”

“Evie wouldn’t break her heart.  I know her better than you do.  She’d suffer for a while, but she’d get over it, and in the end, very soon probably—­marry some one else.”

“How cruel you can be,” he said, with a twisted smile.

“I can be, when it’s right.  In this case I’m only as cruel as—­the truth.  I’m saying it because it must make things easier for you.  Your own pain will be the less from the knowledge that, in time, Evie will get over hers.”

“I suppose it ought to be, but—­”

He did not finish his sentence, and again there was a long hush, during which, while she continued to gaze pensively at the fire, she could hear him shifting with nervous frequency in his chair.  When at last she ventured to look at him he was bowed forward, his elbow supported on his knee, and his forehead resting on his hand.