'The fourth?' asked Merton.

Miss Crofton nodded. 'She has felt more and more certain that she _had_
misread her heart. But on each occasion she _has_ felt this--after
meeting the--well, the next one.'

'I see the awkwardness,' murmured Merton.

'And then Remorse has set in, with all her horrors. Julia has wept, oh!
for nights, on my shoulder.'

'Happy shoulder,' murmured Merton.

'And so, as she _dare_ not shatter their ideals, and perhaps cause them
to plunge into excesses, moral or doctrinal, this is what she has done.
She has said to each, that what the Church, any Church, needs is martyrs,
and that if they will go to benighted lands, where the crown of martyrdom
may still be won, _then_, if they return safe in five years, then
she--will think of naming a day. You will easily see the attractions of
this plan for Julia, Mr. Merton. No ideals were shattered, the young men
being unaware of the circumstances. They _might_ forget her--'

'Impossible,' cried Merton.

'They might forget her, or, perhaps they--'

Miss Crofton hesitated.

'Perhaps they might never--?' asked Merton.