"I am happy," she said, looking straight at him, terror in her eyes.

"But you have no friends?"

"Who has? And what do I want with friends?"

"But don't you see, I can't introduce you to anybody. I can't talk about
you to the people I know. I am always having to explain you away, always
having to act as if I were ashamed of this, my real life. At times I am
Anglo-Saxon enough to be really ashamed of it. And I ought to be and am
ashamed of myself."

"Don't let's talk about it. You and I understand. Why should we bother
about the rest of the world?"

"No, we _must_ talk about it. I have been going over it carefully. We
must--must be married."

He laid his hand upon hers. She blushed deeply and lowered her head. A tear
dropped upon the front of her gown and hung glittering in the meshes of the
white lace. She crept into his arms and buried her face upon his shoulder
and sobbed. He had never seen her even look like tears before.

"We must be married," he repeated, patting her on the shoulder.

She shook her head in negation.

"Yes," he said firmly, mentally noting that this was the very first time he
had ever caught her in a pretense.