"Then it is cowardly not to speak."

"Oh, yes, it is cowardly. . . . If you wish me to speak to her I will.
Shall I?"

"Yes . . . Show her to me."

"And you think that such a man as I am has a right to speak of love to
her?"

"I--we believe it will be your salvation. Mr. Kerns says you must marry
her to be happy. Mr. Keen told me yesterday that it only needed a word
from the right woman to put you on your mettle. . . . And--and that is
my opinion."

"Then in charity say that word!" he breathed, bending toward her. "Can't
you see? Can't you understand? Don't you know that from the moment I
looked into your eyes I loved you?"

"How--how dare you!" she stammered, crimsoning.

"God knows," he said wistfully. "I am a coward. I don't know how I
dared. Good-by. . . ."

He walked his horse a little way, then launched him into a gallop,
tearing on and on, sun, wind, trees swimming, whirling like a vision,
hearing nothing, feeling nothing, save the leaden pounding of his pulse
and the breathless, terrible tightening in his throat.