it.  Is there not someone”—­her voice had grown low and soft—­“someone who can and does give you all the love your heart craves for, someone who will be grateful to you for your love, and who will repay a thousandfold?  Would not that be better than a long hopeless fight against lovelessness, even—­even if you loved her a little less than you believe you love—­me?  Remember that it would rest with you and not with another, you who are generous, who could not refuse to give when so much is given to you.”  Joan’s voice faltered for a moment.  “It would be your own heart on which you would have to make the call, Johnny, not on the heart of another.  You would have more command over your own heart than you ever could over the heart of another.”

“Joan, what do you mean?  What does this mean?”

“I am trying so hard to be plain,” she said almost pitifully.

“Who is this other you are talking about, this other—­who loves me?”

She was silent.

“What do you know of her, Joan, this other?”

And still she was silent, for how could she betray Ellice’s secret?

“Tell me,” he said.

“Don’t you know?  Can’t you guess?”

His face flushed.  A week ago he might have answered, “I cannot guess!” To-day he knew the answer, yet how did Joan know?

“I gave you my promise,” she said, “and I will abide by that promise.  It is for you to decide, and no one else.  My life, your own and—­and the life of another is in your hands—­three futures, Johnny, decide—­”

“You want to—­to give me up?”

“Is that generous?”

“No, it isn’t,” he admitted.  He took a turn up and down the room.  “And you say this other—­this girl—­cares for me?”

“I know she does?”

“Did she tell you?”

“Must I answer?”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” Joan repeated.  “Yes, she did.  She came to me, openly and frankly, straightforward child that she is, and she said to me, ’Why are you marrying him, not loving him?  If you loved him, and he loved you, I would not come to you; but you do not love him, and it is not fair.  You are taking all and giving nothing!’ And, she was right!”

“And she—­she—­” he said in a low voice, “would give—­”

“Has given.”

A silence fell between them.  Then he turned to her, and it seemed as if the cloud had lifted from him.  He held out his hands and smiled at her.

“I understand.  You and she are right.  A starved love could not live for ever; it must die.  Better it should be strangled almost at birth, Joan.  So—­so this is good-bye?”

She shook her head.  “Friends, always, Johnny,” she said.

“Friends always, then.”

She came close to him.  She lifted her hand suddenly, and thrust back the hair from his forehead, she looked him in the eyes and, smiling, kissed him on the brow.

“Go and find your happiness—­a far, far better than I could ever offer you.”