"I would," said I. "And I shall. I'll not desert you, Anita, when your courage and strength fail.

I will carry you on to safety." "I tell you I cannot marry you," she cried, between appeal and command. "There are reasons-I may not tell you.

But if I might, you would-would take me to my uncle's. I cannot marry you!" "That is what conventionality bids you say now," I replied. "But what will it bid you say to-morrow morning, as we drive down crowded Fifth Avenue, after a night in this brougham?" I could not see her, for she drew back into the darkness as sharply as if I had struck her with all my force full in the face.

But I could feel the effect of my words upon her. I paused, not because I expected or wished an answer, but because I had to steady myself-myself, not my purpose; my purpose was inflexible. I would put through what we had begun, just as I would have held her and cut off her arm with my pocketknife if we had been cast away alone, and I had had to do it to save her life.