The Way of the Strong. Cullum Ridgwell

him. She knew she could not; and she knew that she could not go on listening to the strong man's pleadings without yielding.

      Suddenly, in something like desperation, she turned and faced him.

      "I tried to make it plain to you the other night," she cried, with a complaint that made her voice almost harsh. "I tried to tell you then that I could not marry you. But you wouldn't listen to me. You laughed my refusal aside. You told me you would not give me up. I can only reiterate what I tried to tell you then. Why – why urge me when I say I – I cannot marry you?"

      "Cannot?"

      "Yes – cannot, cannot!"

      In desperation Monica added emphasis to her negative.

      "There can only be one reason for 'cannot,'" said Hendrie, with an abrupt return to calmness. "Are you married? Have you a husband living?"

      The woman's denial flashed out without thought.

      "I am not married. I never have been married."

      In a moment she realized the danger of so precipitate a denial. The man's face lit more ardently than ever, and he drew closer.

      "Then you must take that word back, and say you – 'will not.' But you can't say that," he smiled gently. "Why should you? Yes, I know you don't dislike me. You've always seen me as I am. I'm no different. Say, Mon, I'm not here to bully you into marrying me. I'm here to plead with you. I who have never in my life pleaded to man or woman. I want you to give me that which I know no money can ever buy, no position can ever claim. I want your love. I want it because I love you, and without you nothing is worth while."

      He was very near her now. He was so near that Monica dared not move. She could only stand helplessly gazing out of the window. As she remained silent he urged her again, placing one powerful hand gently upon her shoulder.

      "Tell me, do you dislike the hard, unscrupulous financier that men are only too ready to villify?" he asked, with a gentle smile of confidence. "Do you?" His hand moved till it dropped to the woman's soft, rounded upper arm.

      "Mon," he continued, "I want you so much. Tell me you don't – dislike me."

      Monica's courage was swiftly ebbing. The task she had set herself was too hard for her. She was too simply human to withstand the approach of this great love. The touch of the man's hand, so gentle, so almost reverent, had sent the blood coursing through her veins in a hot, passionate tide. All her love for him surged uppermost, and drove her headlong to a reckless denial.