“Magsie, dear,” he said slowly, “it’s a miserable business—­this.  I’m as sorry as I can be about it.  But the truth is that George wants me to get away only until he and Alice can get Rachael into a mood where she’ll forgive me.  They see this whole crazy thing as it really is, dear.  I’m not a young man, Magsie, I’m nearly fifty.  I have no business to think of anything but my own wife and my work and my children—­Don’t look so, Magsie,” he broke off to say; “I only blame myself!  I have loved you—­I do love you—­but it’s only a man’s love for a sweet little amusing friend.  Can’t we—­ can’t we stop it right here?  You do what you please; draw on me for twice that, for ten times that; have a long, restful summer, and then come back in the fall as if this was all a dream—–­”

Magsie had been watching him steadily during this speech, a long speech for him.  At first she had been obviously puzzled, then astonished, now she was angry.  She had grown pale, her pretty childish mouth was a little open, her breath coming fast.  For a full minute, as his voice halted, there was silence.

“Then—­then you didn’t mean all you said?” Magsie demanded stormily, after the pause.  “You didn’t mean that you—­cared?  You didn’t mean the letters, and the presents, and the talks we’ve had?  You knew I was in earnest, but you were just fooling!” Sheer excitement and fury kept her panting for a moment, then she went on:  “But I think I know who’s done this, Greg!” she said viciously; “it’s Mrs. Valentine.  She and her husband have been talking to you; they’ve done it.  She’s persuaded you that you never were in earnest with me!” Magsie ran across the room, flung open the little desk that stood there, and tore the rubber band from a package of letters.  “You take her one of these!” she said, half sobbing.  “Ask her if that means anything!  Greg, dear!” she interrupted herself to say in a child’s reproachful tone, “didn’t you mean it?” And with her soft hair floating, and her figure youthful under the simple lines of her Oriental robe, she came to stand close beside him, her mood suddenly changed.  “Don’t you love me any more, Greg?” said she.

“Love you!” he countered with a rueful laugh, “that’s the trouble.”

She linked her soft little hands in his, raised reproachful eyes.

“But you don’t love me enough to stand by me, now that Rachael is so cross?” she asked artlessly.  “Oh, Greg, I will wait years and years for you!”

Warren’s expression was of wretchedness; he managed a smile.

“It’s only that I hate to let you in for it all, dear.  And let her in for it.  I feel as if we hadn’t thought it out—­quite enough,” he said.

“What does it let Rachael in for?” she asked quickly.  “Here’s her letter, Greg—­I’ll read it to you!  Rachael doesn’t mind.”

“Well—­it will be horrible for you,” he submitted in a troubled tone.  “Horrible for us both.”

“You mean your work can’t spare you?” she asked with a shrewd look.