He came toward her.

“But, Mary,” he cried, “I—­I—­Of course I know you can’t—­now.  I know how you feel about your duty to your uncles.  I know they need you.  I am not asking that you leave them.  I ask only that you say you will wait until—­until by and by, when—­”

“Please, Crawford!  No, I can’t.”

“Mary!  You—­Oh, but you must say it!  Don’t tell me you don’t love me!”

She was silent.  He put his hands upon her shoulders.  She could feel them tremble.

“Don’t you love me, Mary?” he repeated.  “Look up!  Look at me!  Don’t you love me?”

She did not look up, but she shook her head.

“No, Crawford,” she said.  “I’m afraid not.  Not enough.”

She heard him catch his breath, and she longed—­Oh, how she longed!—­to throw her arms about him, tell him that it was all a lie, that she did love him.  But she forced herself not to think of her own love, only of those whom she loved and what disgrace and shame and misery would come upon them if she yielded.

“Not enough?” she heard him repeat slowly.  “You—­you don’t love me?  Oh, Mary!”

She shook her head.

“I am sorry, Crawford,” she said.  “I can’t tell you how sorry.  Please—­please don’t think hardly of me, not too hardly.  I wish—­I wish it were different.”

Neither spoke for a moment.  Then he said: 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.  Is there someone else?”

“Oh, no, no!  There isn’t anyone.”

“Then—­But you told me—­You have let me think—­”

“Please!  I told you I was not sure of my own feelings.  I—­I am sure now.  I am so sorry you came.  I should have written you.  I had begun the letter.”

Again silence.  Then he laughed, a short, bitter laugh with anything but mirth in it.

“I am a fool,” he said.  “What a fool I have been!”

“Please, Crawford, don’t speak so. . . .  Oh, where are you going?”

“I?  I don’t know.  What difference does it make where I go?  Good-by.”

“Stop, Crawford!  Wait!  It makes a difference to your father where you go.  It makes a difference to me.  I—­I value your friendship very highly.  I hoped I might keep that.  I hoped you would let me be your friend, even though the other could not be.  I hoped that.”

The minute before she had asked him to forget her, but she did not remember that, nor did he.  He was standing by the door, looking out.  For a moment he stood there.  Then he turned and held out his hand.

“Forgive me, Mary,” he said.  “I have behaved like a cad, I’m afraid.  When a fellow has been building air castles and all at once they tumble down upon his head he—­well, he is likely to forget other things.  Forgive me.”

She took his hand.  She could keep back the tears no longer; her eyes filled.

“There is nothing for me to forgive,” she said.  “If you will forgive me, that is all I ask.  And—­and let me still be your friend.”