Graye's whole impassioned dream terminated in a sad and
unaccountable episode. After passing through three weeks of sweet
experience, he had arrived at the last stage--a kind of moral Gaza
--before plunging into an emotional desert. The second week in
January had come round, and it was necessary for the young architect
to leave town.

Throughout his acquaintanceship with the lady of his heart there had
been this marked peculiarity in her love: she had delighted in his
presence as a sweetheart should do, yet from first to last she had
repressed all recognition of the true nature of the thread which
drew them together, blinding herself to its meaning and only natural
tendency, and appearing to dread his announcement of them. The
present seemed enough for her without cumulative hope: usually,
even if love is in itself an end, it must be regarded as a beginning
to be enjoyed.

In spite of evasions as an obstacle, and in consequence of them as a
spur, he would put the matter off no longer. It was evening. He
took her into a little conservatory on the landing, and there among
the evergreens, by the light of a few tiny lamps, infinitely
enhancing the freshness and beauty of the leaves, he made the
declaration of a love as fresh and beautiful as they.

'My love--my darling, be my wife!'

She seemed like one just awakened. 'Ah--we must part now!' she
faltered, in a voice of anguish. 'I will write to you.' She
loosened her hand and rushed away.