It was because of this conversation with Cope that Becky ended her letter to Randy with the following paragraph: 

“Mr. Cope has a sister, Louise.  She thinks that people ought to marry because they like the same things.  She thinks that if two people care for the same furniture and the same religion and the same things to eat, that life will be lovely.  She couldn’t love a man enough to live on a desert island with him, because she adores New York.  Of course, there is something in that, and if it is so, you and I ought to be very happy, Randy.  We like old houses and the Virginia hills, and lots of books, and fireplaces—­and dogs and horses and hot biscuits and fried chicken.  It sounds awfully funny to put it that way, doesn’t it, and practical?  But perhaps Louise Cope is right, and one isn’t likely, of course, to have the desert island test.  Do you really think that anybody could be happy on a desert island, Randy?”

Randy replied promptly.

“If you were in love with me, Becky, you wouldn’t be asking questions.  You would believe that we could be blissful on a desert island.  I believe it.  It may not be true, yet I feel that a hut on a mountain top would be heaven for me if you were in it, Becky.  In a way Cope’s sister is right.  The chances for happiness are greatest with those who have similar tastes, but not fried chicken tastes or identical religious opinions.  These do not mean so much, but it would mean a great deal that we think alike about honesty and uprightness and truth and courage——­

“And now, Becky, I might as well say it straight from the shoulder.  I haven’t the least right in the world to let you feel that you are engaged to me.  I shall never marry you unless you love me—­unless you love me so much that you would have the illusion of happiness with me on a desert island.

“I have no right to let you tie yourself to me.  The whole thing is artificial and false.  You are strong enough to stand alone.  I want you to stand alone, Becky, for your own sake.  I want you to tell yourself that Dalton isn’t worth one single thought of yours.  Tell yourself the truth, Becky, about him.  It is the only way to own your soul.

“You may be interested to know that the Watermans left Hamilton Hill yesterday.  Dalton went with them.  I haven’t seen him since the night of the Merriweathers’ ball.  I didn’t tell you, did I, that after I took the fan away from him, I dropped him into the fountain?  I had much rather have tied him to a stake, and have built a fire under him, but that isn’t civilized, and of course, I couldn’t.  But I am glad I dropped him in the fountain——­”

Becky read Randy’s letter as she sat alone on the beach.  It was cool and sunshiny and she was wrapped in a red cape.  The winter gulls were beating strong wings above the breakers, and their sharp cries cut across the roar of the waters.

There had been a storm the night before—­wind booming out of the northeast and the sea still sang the song of it.