"That old man would never forgive me," was the simple reply. "It would make the whole thing quite hopeless for everybody."
He checked the words at the tip of his tongue. She had no right to play for the other side, but there was something in her bearing which shamed him to silence. For the first time he was torn; this immolation of self might be a deeper wisdom; at least he felt thin and shallow in its presence.
"Won't you help me?" She laid a hand on his. Tears were now running down her cheeks.
He caught his breath sharply at the unexpected appeal; it was like the fixing of a knife. There was no alternative; he saw at once with fatal clearness that these four little words cut the ground from under his feet.
"Of course I will," he said miserably, "if that is how you really feel about it."
She bowed her head in the moment's intensity. "Thank you," she said softly.
He could only gasp. Here was the end.
"We must forget each other," she said stoically.
"Or ask the sun and moon to stand still," he said. "I shall never marry anyone else."
She gave him the honest hand of the good comrade and he took it to his lips.
"I shall go back to Canada."
"Won't you stay and help them?"
"No," he said, "these stupid people have got on my nerves. Besides, this city is not big enough to hold us both just now."
"I intend to go to Paris and study for the opera."
