In her own room Mary stood, white and shaken, striving to regain her composure.  She must regain it, she must be cool and calm in order to go through the ordeal she knew was before her.  His coming could mean but one thing:  his father had still refused consent and he had come to tell her so and to beg her to wait for him in spite of it.  If only he had written saying he was coming, if she had been forewarned, then she might have been more ready, more prepared.  Now she must summon all her resolution and be firm and unwavering.  Her purpose was as set and strong as ever, but ah, it would be so hard to tell him!  To write the letter she had meant to write would have been easy compared to this.  However, it must be done—­and done now.  She went down the stairs and entered the sitting-room.

He was sitting in the rocker by the window and when she came into the room he sprang to his feet and came toward her.  His face, or so it seemed to her, showed some traces of the trouble and anxiety through which he had passed so recently.  He was a little thinner and he looked less boyish.  He held out his hands.

“Well, Mary,” he cried, eagerly, “here I am.  Aren’t you glad to see me?”

He seized both her hands in his.  She disengaged them gently.  Her manner seemed odd to him and he regarded her in a puzzled way.

“Aren’t you glad?” he repeated.  “Why, Mary, what is the matter?”

She smiled sadly and shook her head.  “Oh, Crawford,” she said, “why did you come?  Or, at least, why didn’t you write me you were coming?”

He laughed.  “I didn’t write,” he answered, “because I was afraid if I did you would write me not to come.”

“I certainly should.”

“Of course you would.  So I took no chances but just came instead.”

“But why did you come?”

“Why?  To see you, of course.”

“Oh, Crawford, please don’t joke.  You know I asked you not to come here.  When we last spoke together, over the telephone, I told you that if you came here I should not see you.  And yet you came.”

His manner changed.  He was serious enough now.

“I came,” he said, “because—­well, because I felt that I must.  I had many things to tell you, Mary, and something to ask.  And I could neither tell nor ask in a letter.  Dad and I have quarreled—­we’ve parted company.”

She had expected to hear it, but it shocked and grieved her, nevertheless.  She knew how he had loved his father.

“Sit down, Crawford,” she said gently.  “Sit down and tell me all about it.”

He told her.  There was little more to tell than he had written.  His father had not become more reconciled to the idea of his marrying Mary.  Instead his opposition was just as violent and, to his son’s mind, as unreasonably absurd.  Day after day Crawford waited, hoping that time would bring a change or that his own arguments might have an effect, but neither time nor argument softened Edwin Smith’s obstinacy.