come to this rushing conclusion and there could be no evasion, no more delay.
"I was honest enough with you in the beginning," he went on. "I'll ask that for myself: credit for being sincere. I was off my head about you, I was ready to promise anything to you, ready to do anything for you—and I was wrong."
His voice dropped and he let his hand which had been lifted drop, too.
"Wrong?" she asked. "Just where—? Just how?—" Her voice was a bit steadier, that amazement was going from her face; a glint of craft was there.
"In everything—from you to saw-logs!"
Her eyes narrowed, just perceptibly.
"And what have I done?" she asked, "What—to make this difference?" She was steeled, as though her question invited accusation.
He shook his head. "That's the devil of it: you've done nothing." She stirred, as in relief. "It's all on me, Marcia." He did not see the leap of triumph in her eyes or the settling of her mouth. "I—made love to you and promised many things—which I can't fulfill."
The girl stepped forward quickly.
"John, there's some terrible misunderstanding here," she said hurriedly, resting a hand on his arm. "You frighten me, but I know it's a misunderstanding!" She pressed a hand against her lips as though to crowd back a sob but her cool, clear eyes showed no such distress.
"You're miserable; you're making a mountain of—nothing. There has been some good reason for your—for what might seem to other people like your neglect of me, I know."
