“No, Roger; I would give everything in the world to be able to go to her and ask her to marry me.  But I can’t—­” his voice sank and broke, “after that.  I’m a beast—­unclean.”

He rose and took a pace away from me.  “We mustn’t speak of that—­again.  It makes me think of what I owe to—­the other.”

“You owe her nothing.  She has refused you.  She doesn’t care.  Her whole life avows it.  She has forgotten.  Why shouldn’t you?”

“I can’t forget.  And I can’t look in Una’s eyes, Roger.  They’re so clear, so trusting; she believes in me—­utterly.  It’s a mockery, to have her near me so much and not be able to tell her—­”

“Tell her!” I broke in as he paused, “Waste no time.  Tell her that you love her.  Don’t be a fool.  She loves you.  She always has.  I know it.”

He turned quickly, caught me by the shoulders and peered closely into my face.  “You think so, Roger?  Do you?” he said.

“I’m sure of it; from the very first.”

Slowly his hands relaxed and he turned away.  “No—­I—­can’t.  I would have to tell her all.  I owe her that.  She would despise me.”

“You might at least give her that opportunity,” I suggested dryly.

“No,” he said softly.  “I wouldn’t dare.  It would make a terrible difference between us.  I couldn’t.”

And then his hand grasping my arm as he pushed me toward the stairway, “Never speak of this again, Roger—­do you hear?  Never.”  I nodded and said no more, for he had set me to thinking deeply, and I walked all the way uptown to my hotel turning the matter over in my mind, arriving, before sleep came, at a decision.

In the morning at half-past seven I dared to call Una upon the telephone.  I knew her habits and she answered at once, agreeing to give me an hour before she went down town.  When I reached the Habberton house she was ready for the street, and when I told her that I had something of importance to talk about, led the way over into the square where we found a deserted bench in a shady spot.  It was a joyous morning of flickering sunlight and a pleasant commotion of hurrying people and moving traffic was all about us, in the midst of which we seemed unusually isolated.  As I have related, there was a warm friendship between us.  The girl knew that her mission at the Manor during Jerry’s darkest hour had been an open book to me, but the fact that I knew that she had failed in it had made for no loss of pride.  She knew too, I am sure, that I was aware of the real nature of her feelings for Jerry, but my own interest in and affection for them both had given me privileges in her friendship possessed not even by Jerry himself.