She shook her head.

He sighed.

“You’re a determined little miss, aren’t you?” he said, after a few moments, looking up into her eyes.

She felt a wave of feeling sweep over her at this.  It was pride at what seemed his admiration—­affection for the man who could feel this concerning her.

“No,” she said coyly, “but what can I do?”

Again he folded his hands and looked away over the lawn into the street.

“I wish,” he said pathetically, “you would come to me.  I don’t like to be away from you this way.  What good is there in waiting?  You’re not any happier, are you?”

“Happier!” she exclaimed softly, “you know better than that.”

“Here we are then,” he went on in the same tone, “wasting our days.  If you are not happy, do you think I am?  I sit and write to you the biggest part of the time.  I’ll tell you what, Carrie,” he exclaimed, throwing sudden force of expression into his voice and fixing her with his eyes, “I can’t live without you, and that’s all there is to it.  Now,” he concluded, showing the palm of one of his white hands in a sort of at-an-end, helpless expression, “what shall I do?”

This shifting of the burden to her appealed to Carrie.  The semblance of the load without the weight touched the woman’s heart.

“Can’t you wait a little while yet?” she said tenderly.  “I’ll try and find out when he’s going.”

“What good will it do?” he asked, holding the same strain of feeling.

“Well, perhaps we can arrange to go somewhere.”

She really did not see anything clearer than before, but she was getting into that frame of mind where, out of sympathy, a woman yields.

Hurstwood did not understand.  He was wondering how she was to be persuaded—­what appeal would move her to forsake Drouet.  He began to wonder how far her affection for him would carry her.  He was thinking of some question which would make her tell.

Finally he hit upon one of those problematical propositions which often disguise our own desires while leading us to an understanding of the difficulties which others make for us, and so discover for us a way.  It had not the slightest connection with anything intended on his part, and was spoken at random before he had given it a moment’s serious thought.

“Carrie,” he said, looking into her face and assuming a serious look which he did not feel, “suppose I were to come to you next week, or this week for that matter—­to-night say—­and tell you I had to go away--that I couldn’t stay another minute and wasn’t coming back any more—­ would you come with me?” His sweetheart viewed him with the most affectionate glance, her answer ready before the words were out of his mouth.

“Yes,” she said.

“You wouldn’t stop to argue or arrange?”

“Not if you couldn’t wait.”

He smiled when he saw that she took him seriously, and he thought what a chance it would afford for a possible junket of a week or two.  He had a notion to tell her that he was joking and so brush away her sweet seriousness, but the effect of it was too delightful.  He let it stand.