Cynthia and Bob were left alone:  left, moreover, in mortal terror of each other.  It is comparatively easy to open the door of a room and rush into a lady’s arms if the lady be willing and alone.  But to be abandoned, as Susan had abandoned them, and with such obvious intent, creates quite a different atmosphere.  Bob had dared to hope for such an opportunity:  had made up his mind during supper, while striving to be agreeable, just what he would do if the opportunity came.  Instead, all he could do was to sit foolishly in his chair and look at the coals, not so much as venturing to turn his head until the sound of footsteps had died away on the upper floors.  It was Cynthia who broke the silence and took command—­a very different Cynthia from the girl who had thrown herself on the bed not three hours before.  She did not look at him, but stared with determination into the fire.

“Bob, you must go,” she said.

“Go!” he cried.  Her voice loosed the fetters of his passion, and he dared to seize the band that lay on the arm of her chair.  She did not resist this.

“Yes, you must go.  You should not have stayed for supper.”

“Cynthia,” he said, “how can I leave you?  I will not leave you.”

“But you can and must,” she replied.

“Why?” he asked, looking at her in dismay.

“You know the reason,” she answered.

“Know it?” he cried.  “I know why I should stay.  I know that I love you with my whole heart and soul.  I know that I love you as few men have ever loved—­and that you are the one woman among millions who can inspire such a love.”

“No, Bob, no,” she said, striving hard to keep her head, withdrawing her hand that it might not betray the treason of her lips.  Aware, strange as it may seem, of the absurdity of the source of what she was to say, for a trace of a smile was about her mouth as she gazed at the coals.  “You will get over this.  You are not yet out of college, and many such fancies happen there.”

For the moment he was incapable of speaking, incapable of finding an answer sufficiently emphatic.  How was he to tell her of the rocks upon which his love was built?

How was he to declare that the very perils which threatened her had made a man of him, with all of a man’s yearning to share these perils and shield her from them?  How was he to speak at all of those perils?  He did not declaim, yet when he spoke, an enduring sincerity which she could not deny was in his voice.

“You know in your heart that what you say is not true, Cynthia.  Whatever happens, I shall always love you.”

Whatever happens:  She shuddered at the words, reminding her as they did of all her vague misgivings and fears.

“Whatever happens!” she found herself repeating them involuntarily.

“Yes, whatever happens I will love you truly and faithfully.  I will never desert you, never deny you, as long as I live.  And you love me, Cynthia,” he cried, “you love me, I know it.”