touch, except in the most superficial way. When you told me your story,
that night in the woods, you tried to make me think that you did
voluntarily--what you did. You lied to me. I thought so then. I know it
now. You were flattered and bullied, cajoled and coerced--a girl scarcely
older than my sister Edith, whom we consider a child, whose father is
distressed to even think of her as marriageable. It is time to stop
feeling repentance for sins you never committed, and to look at yourself
sanely and happily--if you must be introspective at all. No braver,
lovelier, purer woman ever lived, or one more obviously intended to be a
wife and mother. The sooner you become both, the better."

There was a moment of tense silence. Sylvia made no effort to draw away
from him; at last she asked, in a voice which was almost pleading in
its quality:

"Is that what you think of me?"

Austin dropped his hand. "Good God, Sylvia!" he said hoarsely; "don't you
know by this time what I think of you?"

"Then you mean--that you want me to marry you?"

"No, no, no!" he cried. "Why are you so bound to misunderstand and
misjudge me? I beg you not to ride by yourself, and you tell me I am
'dictating.' I go for months without hearing from you for fear of
annoying you, and you accuse me of 'indifference.' I bring you a gift as
a vassal might have done to his liege lady--and you shrink away from me
in terror. I try to show you what manner of woman you really are, and you
believe that I am displaying the same presumption which I have just
condemned in my own brother. Are you so warped and embittered by one