The hand he gripped was cold, she avoided his eyes.

“You—­you mustn’t,” she murmured.  “Please don’t!”

He held out his other hand and half rose, but her lips suddenly ceased to quiver and she waved him back.

“No, Leonard,” she begged, “please don’t do or say anything foolish.  Since we do meet again, though, like this, I am going to ask you one question.  What made you come to me and ask me to marry you that day?”

He looked away; something in her eyes accused him.

“Beatrice,” he confessed, “I was a thick-headed ignorant fool, without understanding.  I came to you for safety.  I was afraid of Elizabeth, I was afraid of what I felt for her.  I wanted to escape from it.”

She smiled piteously.

“It wasn’t a very brave thing to do, was it?” she faltered.

“It was mean,” he admitted.  “It was worse than that.  But, Beatrice,” he went on, “I was missing you horribly.  You did leave a big empty place when you went away.  I am not going to excuse myself about Elizabeth.  I lived through a time of the strangest, most marvelous emotions one could dream of.  Then the thing came to an end and I felt as though the bottom had gone out of life.  I suppose—­I loved her,” he continued hesitatingly.  “I don’t know.  I only know that she filled every thought of my brain, that she lived in every beat of my heart, that I would have gone down into Hell to help her.  And then I understood.  That morning she told me something of the truth about herself, not meaning to—­unconsciously — justifying herself all the time, not realizing that every word she said was damnable.  And then there didn’t seem to be anything else left, and I had only one desire.  I turned my back upon everything and I went back to the place where I was born, a little fishing village.  For the last thirty miles I walked.  I shall never forget it.  When I got there, what I wanted was work, work with my hands.  I wanted to build something, to create anything that I could labor upon.  I became a boat builder—­I have been a boatbuilder ever since.”

“And now?” she asked.

“Beatrice!”

She turned and faced him.  She looked into his eyes very searchingly, very wistfully.

“Beatrice,” he said, “I ask you once more, only differently.  Will you marry me now?  I’ll find some work, I’ll make enough money for us.  Do you remember,” he went on, “how I used to talk, how I used to feel that I had only to put forth my strength and I could win anything?  I’ll feel like that again, Beatrice, if you’ll come to me.”

She shook her head slowly.  She looked away from him with a sigh.  She had the air of one who has sought for something which she has failed to find.

“You mustn’t think of that again, Leonard,” she told him.  “It would be quite impossible.  This is the only way I can save my father.  We have a tour that will take us the best part of another year.”