Tabs looked down at his companion to see whether her last remark had
been sarcastic; to his discomfort he found that it hadn't. "I'm not sure
that I like to be lent round like that," he objected. "I was sorry for
her last night and promised to help her; but this phoning you up to ask
your permission puts an entirely erroneous complexion on the affair."

"Not erroneous if I understand," she assured him, glancing up with
tender frankness.

He smiled at the way she cozened him. Was she willing to lend him to
another woman because she was so sure of him, or because she didn't care
whether she lost him?

"Your father suspects me of being lukewarm about you," he said; "and I
can't blame him. He knows nothing about our meeting yesterday. He
doesn't know that you care for Braithwaite. All he knows is that I asked
his permission to approach you and then let two days elapse. When I did
come to his house again it was to defend the two people who have caused
him most annoyance. My reason for defending them was that I might make
things easier for you. But my position is false, Terry. Every day your
parents are expecting that we'll become engaged; every day that we
don't----"

They had come to the Marble Arch. "Shall we hop into a taxi?" he
enquired.

She shook her head. "Let's walk a little farther--down to Hyde Park
Corner. It's easier to say things."

When he had helped her through the traffic and they were sauntering
through the Park, she took up the thread of their conversation. "I told
you yesterday that I was willing to become engaged to you. I'm willing
to-day."

"_Willing!_" he emphasized. "But you don't _want_. The man you love is
Braithwaite. What difference has this confession of his made?"

She shrugged her shoulders and looked away, so that he should not see
the quivering of her mouth. "It's made everything impossible. I admire
him more than ever. I admire him for having told the truth and for
having climbed so far up by his gallantry. But---- I'm no fool, Tabs. I
know that I couldn't marry him without bringing ridicule upon all of us.
Noble notions about human equality don't work in practice. He's what he
is--fine of his kind. He's finer than you or I, Tabs, only he's not our
sort. He couldn't ever become our sort. If I were as big as he is, I
might not mind. But I'm little and mean; I care so much for caste. And
yet, in spite of that, I want to marry him. I oughtn't to tell you, of
all people. But I can't