hers. "AM yours already, Alan. I somehow feel as if I had always
been yours. I am yours this moment. You may do what you would
with me."

She said it so simply, so purely, so naturally, with all the
supreme faith of the good woman, enamoured, who can yield herself
up without blame to the man who loves her, that it hardly even
occurred to Alan's mind to wonder at her self-surrender. Yet he
drew back all the same in a sudden little crisis of doubt and
uncertainty. He scarcely realized what she meant. "Then,
dearest," he cried tentatively, "how soon may we be married?"

At sound of those unexpected words from such lips as his, a flush
of shame and horror overspread Herminia's cheek. "Never!" she
cried firmly, drawing away. "Oh, Alan, what can you mean by it?
Don't tell me, after all I've tried to make you feel and
understand, you thought I could possibly consent to MARRY you?"

The man gazed at her in surprise. Though he was prepared for much,
he was scarcely prepared for such devotion to principle. "Oh,
Herminia," he cried, "you can't mean it. You can't have thought of
what it entails. Surely, surely, you won't carry your ideas of
freedom to such an extreme, such a dangerous conclusion!"

Herminia looked up at him, half hurt. "Can't have thought of what
it entails!" she repeated. Her dimples deepened. "Why, Alan,
haven't I had my whole lifetime to think of it? What else have I
thought about in any serious way, save this one great question of a
woman's duty to herself, and her sex, and her unborn children?
It's been my sole study. How could you fancy I spoke hastily, or