“Polk,” I asked him suddenly without giving him time to get the situation into his own hands, skilled in their woman-handling, “do you intend to marry Nell or just plain break her heart for the fun you get out of it?”

His dangerous eyes smoldered back at me for a long minute before he answered me: 

“Men don’t break women’s hearts, Evelina.”

“I think you are right,” I answered slowly, “they do just wring and distort them and deform them for life.  But I intend to see that Nell’s has no such torturous operation performed on it if I can appeal to you or convince her.”

“When you argue with Nell be sure and don’t tell her just exactly the things you have done to me all this summer through, Evelina.” he answered coolly.

“What do you mean?” I demanded, positively cold with a kind of astonished fear.

“I mean that I have never offered Nell one half of the torture you have offered me, every day since you came home, with your damned affectionate friendliness.  When I laugh, you answer it before it gets articulate, and when I gloom, you are as sympathetic as sympathy itself.  I have held your hand and kissed it, instituting and not quenching a raging thirst thereby, as you are experienced enough to know.  You have made yourself everything for me that is responsive and desirable and beautiful and worthy and have put me back every time I have reached out to grasp you.  You don’t want me, you don’t want to marry me at all, you just want —­excitement.  You are as cold as ice that grinds and generates fire.  Very well, you don’t have to take me—­and I’ll get what I can from Nell—­and others.”

“Oh, Polk, how could you have misunderstood me like this?” I moaned from the depths of an almost broken heart.  But as I moaned I understood—­I understood!

I’m doing it all wrong!  I had the most beautiful human love for him in my heart and he thought it was all dastardly, cold coquetting.  An awful spark has been struck out of the flint.  I’m not worthy to experiment with this dreadful man-and-woman question.  I just laid my head down on my arms, resting on my knees and cowered at Polk’s feet.

“Don’t—­Evelina, I didn’t mean it.” he said quickly in a shaken voice.  But he did!

I couldn’t answer him and as I sat still and prayed in my heart for some words to come that would do away with the horror I heard Sallie’s voice from my front walk, and she and Mr. Haley, each carrying a sleeping twin, came around the corner of the porch.

That interruption was a direct answer to prayer, for God knew that I just must have time to think before having this out with Polk.  I sometimes feel ashamed of the catastrophes I have to pray quick about, but what would I do if I couldn’t?

I don’t know how I got through the rest of this evening, but I did—­I pray for sleep.  Amen!

Watching the seasons follow each other in the Harpeth Valley gives me the agony of a dumb poet, who can feel though not sing.