“Yes.  Mel, make me happy just for that little while.”

“Happy?” she whispered.

“Yes.  I’ve failed here in every way.  I’ve lost all.  And this thing would make the bitterness endurable.”

“I’d die for you,” she returned.  “But marry you!—­Daren—­dearest—­it will make you the laughing-stock of Middleville.”

“Whatever it makes me, I shall be proud.”

“Oh, I cannot, I dare not,” she burst out.

“You seem to forget the penalty for these unflattering negatives of yours,” he returned, coolly, bending to her lips.

This time she did not writhe or quiver or breathe.  Lane felt surrender in her, and when he lifted his face from hers he was sure.  Despite the fact that he had inflexibly clamped his will to one purpose, holding his emotion in abeyance, that brief instant seemed to be the fullest of his life.

“Mel, put your arm round my neck,” he commanded.

Mel obeyed.

“Now the other.”

Again she complied.

“Lift your face—­look at me.”

She essayed to do this also, but failed.  Her head sank on his breast.  He had won.  Lane held her a moment closely.  And then a great and overwhelming pity and tenderness, his first emotions, flooded his soul.  He closed his eyes.  Dimly, vaguely, they seemed to create vision of long future time; and he divined that good and happiness would come to Mel Iden some day through the pain he had given her.

“Where did you say your things are?” he asked.  “It’s a bad night.”

“They’re in—­the hall,” came in muffled tones from his shoulder.  “I’ll get them.”

But she made no effort to remove her arms from round his neck or to lift her head from his breast.  Lane had lost now that singular exaltation of will, and power to hold down his emotions.  Her nearness stormed his heart.  His test came then, when he denied utterance to the love that answered hers.

“No—­Mel—­you stay here,” he said, freeing himself.  “I’ll get them.”

Opening the hall door he saw the hat-rack where as a boy he had hung his cap.  It now held garments over which Lane fumbled.  Mel came into the hall.

“Daren, you’ll not know which are mine,” she said.

Lane watched her.  How the shapely hands trembled.  Her face shone white against her dark furs.  Lane helped her put on the overshoes.

“Now—­just a word to mother,” she said.

Lane caught her hand and held it, following her to the end of the hall, where she opened a door and peeped into the sitting-room.

“Mother, is dad home?” she asked.

“No—­he’s out, and such a bad night!  Who’s with you, Mel?”

“Daren Lane.”

“Oh, is he up again?  I’m glad.  Bring him in....  Why, Mel, you’ve your hat and coat on!”

“Yes, mother dear.  We’re going out for a while.”

“On such a night!  What for?”

“Daren and I are going to—­to be married....  Good-bye.  No more till we come back.”