"It would be all wrong—to marry Harrowby," she said faintly. "Because I've come to—I—oh, Dick, can't you see?"
"See! Of course I see!" He clenched his fists. "Cynthia, my dearest"
Below him stretched six stories of open space. In his agony he thought of leaping over the rail—of letting that be his answer. But no—it would disarrange things so—it might even postpone the wedding!
"Cynthia," he groaned, "you can't understand. It mustn't be—I've given my word. I can't explain. I can never explain. But—Cynthia—Cynthia"
Back in the shadow the girl pressed her hands to her burning cheeks.
"A strange love—yours," she said. "A love that blows hot and cold."
"Cynthia—that isn't true—I do love you"
"Please! Please let us—forget." She stepped into the moonlight, fine, brave, smiling. "Do we—dance?"
"Cynthia!" he cried unhappily. "If you only understood"
