citement associated with the thought of Cassandra once more took possession of him. No longer was it the excitement of anticipation and ignorance; it was the excitement of something greater than a possibility, for now he knew her and had measure of the sympathy between them. But who could give him certainty? Could Katharine, Katharine who had lately lain in his arms, Katharine herself the most admired of women? He looked at her, with doubt, and with anxiety, but said nothing.
“Yes, yes,” she said, interpreting his wish for assurance, “it’s true. I know what she feels for you.”
“She loves me?”
Katharine nodded.
“Ah, but who knows what I feel? How can I be sure of my feeling myself? Ten minutes ago I asked you to marry me. I still wish it—I don’t know what I wish———”
He clenched his hands and turned away. He suddenly faced her and demanded: “Tell me what you feel for Denham.”
“For Ralph Denham?” she asked. “Yes!” she exclaimed, as if she had found the answer to some momentarily perplexing question. “You’re jealous of me, William; but you're not in love with me. I’m jealous of you. Therefore, for both our sakes, I say, speak to Cassandra at once.”
He tried to compose himself. He walked up and down the room; he paused at the window and surveyed the flowers strewn upon the floor. Meanwhile his desire to have Katharine’s assurance confirmed became so insistent that he could no longer deny the overmastering strength of his feeling for Cassandra.
“You're right,” he exclaimed, coming to a standstill and rapping his knuckles sharply upon a small table carrying one slender vase. “I love Cassandra.”
As he said this, the curtains hanging at the door of the
