“No, no,” she answered, her breath coming fast.  He was on his feet now, dangerously near her, and she rose swiftly to avoid him.

She turned her head, that he might not read the denial in her eyes; and yet had to look at him again, for he was coming toward her quickly.  “Don’t touch me,” she said, “don’t touch me.”

He stopped, and looked at her so pitifully that she could scarce keep back her tears.

“You do love me,” he repeated.

So they stood for a moment, while Cynthia made a supreme effort to speak calmly.

“Listen, Bob,” she said at last, “if you ever wish to see me again, you must do as I say.  You must write to your father, and tell him what you have done and—­and what you wish to do.  You may come to me and tell me his answer, but you must not come to me before.”  She would have said more, but her strength was almost gone.  Yes, and more would have implied a promise or a concession.  She would not bind herself even by a hint.  But of this she was sure:  that she would not be the means of wrecking his opportunities.  “And now—­you must go.”

He stayed where he was, though his blood leaped within him, his admiration and respect for the girl outran his passion.  Robert Worthington was a gentleman.

“I will do as you say, Cynthia,” he answered, “but I am doing it for you.  Whatever my father’s reply may be will not change my love or my intentions.  For I am determined that you shall be my wife.”

With these words, and one long, lingering look, he turned and left her.  He had lacked the courage to speak of his father’s bitterness and animosity.  Who will blame him?  Cynthia thought none the less of him for not telling her.  There was, indeed, no need now to describe Dudley Worthington’s feelings.

When the door had closed she stoke to the window, and listened to his footfalls in the snow until she heard them no more.