strawberries and cream, and put her elbows before her on the table. "Mr. Manning," she said, "I HAVE a confession to make."
"I wish you would use my Christian name," he said.
She attended to that, and then dismissed it as unimportant.
Something in her voice and manner conveyed an effect of unwonted gravity to him. For the first time he seemed to wonder what it might be that she had to confess. His smile faded.
"I don't think our engagement can go on," she plunged, and felt exactly that loss of breath that comes with a dive into icy water.
"But, how," he said, sitting up astonished beyond measure, "not go on?"
"I have been thinking while you have been talking. You see—I didn't understand."
She stared hard at her finger-nails. "It is hard to express one's self, but I do want to be honest with you. When I promised to marry you I thought I could; I thought it was a possible arrangement. I did think it could be done. I admired your chivalry. I was grateful."
She paused.
"Go on," he said.
She moved her elbow nearer to him and spoke in a still lower tone. "I told you I did not love you."
"I know," said Manning, nodding gravely. "It was fine and brave of you."
"But there is something more."
She paused again.
"I—I am sorry—I didn't explain. These things
