ess.

"Confound it! What a brute I am!" he muttered. "What the dickens does
one do with a woman in hysterics?"

He laid his hand very timidly on her silky hair. He had had no idea that
it was so silky. "Cheer up!" he said softly. And then again, "I do wish
you'd cheer up."

She took not the slightest notice, save that a small white hand scuttled
out like a mouse from beneath the cushions and commenced a hurried
search. He watched it and formed a hasty guess. It couldn't find the
thing for which it had been sent, so he dropped his own large
handkerchief in its path, saw it take possession of it and dive again
beneath the cushions. It made no difference to the sobbing.

What ought he to do? He couldn't endure the sound--it wrenched him. He
bent over her, trying to turn her obstinately hidden face in his
direction.

"Maisie!" The word had slipped out. It didn't matter. It mattered so
little that he repeated the indiscretion. "Maisie, you mustn't break
your heart like that. No one thinks ill of you and you are wanted.
You're wanted most awfully. Heaps of people want you."

The shoulders ceased to heave for a fraction of a second, but her face
still refused to turn. "Who-oo--who wants me?" Her voice reached him
choked with tears and muffled.

Tabs frowned. The question was a poser. Who did want her? He was blessed
if he knew. There must be people who wanted her--Adair, for instance.
But the mention of Adair would provide her with a reason for a new
outburst. There was only one thing to say under the circumstances, so he
said it. "I do."

She lay so still that she might have been dead. It was frightening, this
sudden silence after such a storm of emotion. It was so frightening that
he had to say something more to prove to himself that she could hear.
"You're beautiful. You're so gay when you're not crying. I don't think
any man could prevent himself from wanting you." And then desperately,
in a last effort, "You're most tremendously charming."

Her face never stirred from the cushions, but he was aware that
surreptitiously his borrowed handkerchief was being employed
industriously.

He had just time to compose his features before a tear-wet eye blinked
up at him. It was an eye eloquent with gratitude and babyishly blue.
"You're a dear," a small voice whispered.

VI

He had been called many things from time to time, but never before "a
dear." To be called "a dear" by a beautiful woman was an entirely new
sen