With an impulsive forward sweep of her hands she interrupted him and her
voice was burdened with deep pain and heart-ache.

"Don't!" she pleaded, and the monosyllable was like a cry. "Oh, don't!"
Then after a little while she went on slowly: "You are a romanticist,
Paul, and a dreamer. Some day you will wake up. We all do."

"It was better to tell you, dear, wasn't it? It would have been
unfair--"

She bowed her head wearily as though realizing the futility of expecting
him to understand. "Yes, I suppose so, only--"

He waited a moment, then prompted:

"Only what?"

"Only perhaps a stronger man would have told me before he--kissed me."

"Did that--make so much difference?"

The green-gray eyes grew soft and the lips smiled wanly. "Yes--all the
difference," she said. "It made me think for a moment that--that
everything was different.... Ordinarily people don't--I mean men
don't--" She broke off and then explained a little laboriously. "To me
that sort of kiss must mean a very great deal to excuse itself."

"But I did mean it," he fervently assured her. "Marcia, I have been
horribly unhappy and you have been lonely. We have seen so much of each
other because we wanted each other--needed each other."