his breath. He found himself hoping insanely that he would not have to speak, because his throat was trembling and his lips were sticking to his teeth. He heard her, at a distance from him, weeping in a vast hush that had settled down on him like the peace that broods over ruins in a desert, among sands, at night.
She was saying: "You promised—you said you'd wait. I old you—I told you I'd try. I didn't know—how could I? I didn't mean—I—I thought we'd be good friends . . . and write. I—I'm not ready yet. I don't want to think of—of marrying anyone yet. I want to be free."
He was conscious only of the need of getting away somewhere, alone. He stumbled to the edge of the porch. At a cry from her he stopped there. She came to him in the darkness and pleaded: "Don't! Don't! Don't do it. Don't leave college."
"It's too late," he said hoarsely, and gathering her into his arms, with a sort of despairing longing for what might have been, he found her wet cheek with his lips, and kissed her. "Good-bye," he whispered. "Don't cry. It's all right. I can stand it. I'm used to it. I can wait."
She released herself with a sudden effort and disappeared into the house.
He returned to his room, fighting with himself to maintain his resolution to endure this disappointment too, to wait for her, to work for her, to be true to her in spite of her. But even while he was saying to himself
