her eyes questioning, before the calculation which flickered in their depths; he took her hands and halted. Just that: took her hands in his and stopped.
They stood, and he felt her tremble.
"John—aren't you going to—kiss me?" Her voice was exquisite pathos mingled with fright and misgiving, fright and misgiving which were well balanced; almost too well balanced.
He released one of her hands and his fell to his side limply.
"No, Marcia," shaking his head slowly. "I'm not—today."
She drew back then, a hand at her throat.
"John? John! You aren't glad to see me?" in a breathless whisper; and then, voice mounting, "John! What is it?"
He turned away, thrusting his hands into his pockets, staring gloomily through a window.
"A mistake," he muttered.
"Mistake?"
"Yes, a ghastly, miserable mistake!" he cried, facing her again, throwing his hands wide. "I'm at fault, Marcia. The blame in it rests on me. I've been selfish, indecisive. I've changed and said nothing to you about change. If you hadn't come here today I might have come to you with this—or I might have let matters drift—I don't know."
He swallowed drily and looked down at her. She seemed smaller than ever, seemed more lovely, more fragile than she ever had before; her blue eyes were wide with fright and her lips parted in bewilderment, and that bewilderment was genuine. His brows drew together with the pain of hurting her, but the change of weeks had
