he recognized how absurdly he had deceived himself. At the mere
physical sight of her, there came to him a swift relief, a
thrill of peace and deep content; and with delighted certainty
he knew that what Vera might do or might not do concerned him
not at all, that for him all that counted was the girl herself.
With something of this showing in his face, he came eagerly
toward her.

"Vera!" he exclaimed. In the word there was delight, wonder,
tenderness; but if the girl recognized this she concealed her
knowledge. Instead, her eyes looked into his frankly; her manner
was that of open friendliness.

"Mabel tells me you want to talk to me," she said evenly "but I
don't want you to. I have something I want to say to you. I
could have written it, but this" -- for an instant the girl
paused with her lips pressed together; when she spoke, her voice
carried the firmness and finality of one delivering a verdict --
"but this," she repeated, "is the last time you shall hear from
me, or see me again."

Winthrop gave an exclamation of impatience, of indignation.

"No," returned the girl, "it is quite final. Maybe you will not
want to see me, but -- "

Winthrop again sharply interrupted her. His voice was filled
with reproach.
"Vera!" he protested.