It was true again, he admitted it.  She had never been—­and he had always known it—­“that kind of woman.”  She had safely mocked at sex only because she had never felt its significance.  From the depths of his misery, he told himself, while he faced her, that she would be perfect if she were only a little different—­if she were only “that kind of woman.”  She possessed a thousand virtues, he was aware; she was generous, honourable according to her lights, loyal, brave, charitable, and unselfish.  But it is the woman of a single virtue, not a thousand, that a man exalts.

“Yes, I suppose it always meant less to you than to others,” he repeated dully.

“It wasn’t my fault—­why do you blame me?” she responded quickly.  “Men hold a woman to blame when she doesn’t love, however ill they may use her as soon as she does it.  Oh, I know you’re not that sort—­you needn’t explain it.  You are different, and this is why I am half loving you even now.  Last night when I awoke and heard a mockingbird in the cedars, I told myself that I could never be happy away from you.  But when the light came, I wanted to see the world, and I forgot you.  I’m only twenty-one.  I’m too young to tie myself down forever.”

“My mother married when she was sixteen,” he replied, partly because he could think of nothing else to say at the moment, partly because he honestly entertained the masculine conviction that the precedent in some way constituted an argument.

“And a sensible marriage it was!” retorted Molly with scorn.  “She’s had a hard enough lot and you know it.”  In her earnestness she had almost assumed the position of Sarah’s champion.

“Yes, I reckon it is,” he returned, wounded to the quick.  “I’ve no right to ask you to exchange what they offer you for a life like my mother’s.”

Fulness of emotion lent dignity to his words, but if he had shown indifference instead of tenderness, it would probably have served him better.  She was so sure of Abel—­so ready to accept as a matter of course the fact that she could rely on him.

“So you want it to be all over between us?” he asked.

“I don’t want to be tied—­I don’t think I ought to be.”  Her tone was firm, but she plucked nervously at a bit of crape on the sleeve of Mrs. Gay’s gown.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he replied quietly.  He had spoken in a stiff and constrained manner, with little show of his suffering, yet all the while he felt that a band of iron was fastened across his brain, and the physical effect of this pressure was almost unendurable.  He wanted to ease his swollen heart by some passionate outburst, but an obstinate instinct, which was beyond his control, prevented his making a ridiculous display of his emotion.  The desire to curse aloud, to hurl defiant things at a personal deity, was battling within him, but instead of yielding to it he merely repeated: 

“I reckon you’re right—­it wouldn’t be fair to you in the end.”