"You don't love me?" he asked.
"You know I do."
"Then why?"
"I can't tell you."
His hand dropped to his side. "You won't, you mean. And you leave me to my own conclusion, that you are going back because of Harlowe."
Her head went up. "I'm not."
"You're in love with him? You want to be near him?"
"I'm not in love with him. But I'd like to be." She flung it at him gallantly. "He's worth loving."
One on each side of the fireplace, their likeness to each other was amazing—upheld heads, the touch of haughtiness.
"Oh," Louis said at last impatiently, "we can't part like this. Do you think I'll let you go?"
"I must."
"You said you had written to your aunts. What reason did you give them?"
"I didn't give any. I simply said I was coming back."
"You'll hate the farm, Hildegarde—after this."
"Daddy . . . I'm sorry."
His voice had a high note of irritation. "If you were sorry, you'd stay. Have I been so—impossible?"
"It isn't that."
He began to walk the floor. "I've never loved anything that I haven't lost it."
Silence. What could she say?
After a while he went on. "Of course, the inevitable
