She drew him to one side, whispering, “Before you judge me too harshly, Paul, please listen to what I have to say.  I feel I have the right to make this explanation, and you have the right to hear it.  Under the French law, I am legally bound to the Count de Roannes.  Fearing that I might not remain true to a mere verbal pledge—­you knew we were engaged, Paul, for I told you that, last summer—­the Count asked that the betrothal papers be executed before his unavoidable return to Paris.  Knowing no real reason for delay, since it had to come some time, I consented; but I stipulated that I was to have six months of freedom before becoming his wife.  Arrangements have been made for us all to go abroad next spring, and we shall be married in Paris.  Paul, I did not tell you this, this afternoon—­I could not!  I wanted to see you—­the real you—­just once more, before you heard the bitter news, for I knew that after you had heard, you would never look or speak the same to me again.  Oh, Paul, pity me!  Pity me when I tell you that I asked for those six months simply that I might dedicate them to you, and to the burial, in my memory, of our little dream of love!  It was only my little fancy, Paul!  I wanted to play at being constant that long to our dream.  I wanted to wear my six-months’ mourning for our still-born love.  I thought it was only a little game of ‘pretend’ to you, Paul—­why should it be anything else?  But it was very real to me.”

Her voice broke, and the Boy took her hand in his, tenderly, for his resentment had long since died away.

“Opal,” he faltered, “I no longer know nor care who or what I am.  This experience has taken me out of myself, and set my feet in strange paths.  I had a life to live, Opal, but I have forgotten it in yours.  I had theories, ideals, hopes, aspirations—­but I don’t know where they are now, Opal.  They are gone—­gone with your smile—­”

Opal’s eyes grew soft with caresses.

“They will come back, Paul—­they must come back!  They were born in you—­of Truth itself, not of a mere woman.  You will forget me, Boy, and your life will not be the pitiful waste you think.  It must not be!”

“I used to think that, Opal.  It never seemed to me that life could ever be an utter waste so long as a man had work to do and the strength and skill to do it.  But now—­I’m all at sea!  I only know—­how—­I shall miss you!”

Opal grew thoughtful.

“And how will it be with me?” she said sadly.  “I have never learned to wear a mask.  I can’t pose.  I can’t wear ’false smiles that cover an aching heart.’  Perhaps the world may teach me now—­but I’m not a hypocrite—­yet!”

“I believe you, Opal!  I love you because you are you!”

“And I love you, Paul, because you are you!”

And even then he did not clasp her in his arms, nor attempt it.  She was another’s now, and his hands were tied.  He must try to control his one great weakness—­the longing for her.