I couldn't see her clearly and continuously in the taxi. The lamp-posts
we passed on the way to Hampstead lit her up at short, regular intervals,
and at short, regular intervals she faded and was withdrawn from me. And
in the same intermittent way, her soul, as she was trying to show it to
me, was illuminated and withdrawn.

"I ought to love you," she went on. "I know I ought. It would be the very
best thing I could do."

The folly in me clutched at that admission and gave tongue. "If that's
so," I said, "don't you think you could try to do what you ought?"

The lamp-light fell on her then. She was smiling a little sad,
wise smile. "No," she said. "No. I think that's _why_ I can't love
you--because I ought."

And then she went on to explain that what she had against me was my
frightful rectitude.

"You're too nice for me, Furny, much too nice. And ever so much too good.
I simply couldn't live with integrity like yours." She paused and then
turned to me full as we passed a lamp-post.

"I suppose you know my people would like me to marry you?"

I said a little irritably that I had no reason to suppose anything of the
sort.

"They would," she said. "Why, bless you, that's what they asked you down