step backward. "Why then doesn't she prove it in the only clear way?"
"She has proved it. Will you believe it if you see the letter?"
"I don't want to see any letter," said Fleda. "You'll miss your train."
Facing him, waving him away, she had taken another upward step; but he sprang to the side of the stairs, and brought his hand, above the banister, down hard on her wrist. "Do you mean to tell me that I must marry a woman I hate?"
From her step she looked down into his raised face. "Ah, you see it's not true that you're free!" She seemed almost to exult. "It's not true, it's not true!"
He only, at this, like a buffeting swimmer, gave a shake of his head and repeated his question: "Do you mean to tell me I must marry such a woman?"
Fleda hesitated; he held her fast. "No. Anything is better than that."
"Then, in God's name, what must I do?"
"You must settle that with Mona. You mustn't break faith. Anything is better than that. You must at any rate be utterly sure. She must love you—how can she help it? I wouldn't give you up!" said Fleda. She spoke in broken bits, panting out her words. "The great thing is to keep faith. Where is a man if he doesn't? If he doesn't he may be so cruel. So cruel, so cruel, so cruel!" Fleda repeated. "I couldn't have a hand in
