fancies. My poor Lyle, is it indeed
so? You, whom I should have thought would choose a new idol every month,
have you all this while been seriously and heartily in love, and with
one girl only? Are you quite sure it was but one?" And she half smiled.

He seemed now more confused than ever. "One cannot but speak truth to
you," he murmured. "You make me tell you everything, whether I will or
no. And if I did not, you might hear it from some one else, and that
would make me very miserable."

"Well, what was it?"

"That though I never loved but this my beautiful lady, once,--only once,
for a very little while, I assure you,--I was half disposed to like some
one else whom you know."

Olive thought a minute, and then said, very seriously, "Was it Christal
Manners?"

"It was. She led me into it, and then she teased me out of it. But
indeed it was not love--only a mere passing fancy."

"Did you tell her of your feelings?"

"Only in some foolish verses, which she laughed at."

"You should not have done that. It is very wicked to make any pretence
about love."

"O! dearest Miss Rothesay, you are not angry with me? Whatever my folly,
you must know well that there is but one woman in the world whom I ever
truly loved--whom I do love, most passionately! It is _yourself_."

Olive looked up in blank astonishment. She almost thought that sentiment
had driven him crazy. But he went on with an earnestness that could not
be mistaken, though it was mingled with some extravagance.

"All the good that is in me I learned from you when I was a little boy.
I thought you an angel even then, and used to dream about you for hours.
When I grew older, I made you an idol. All the poetry I ever wrote was
about you--your golden hair, and your sweet eyes. You seemed to me then,
and you seem now, the most beautiful creature in the whole world."

"Lyle, you are mocking me," said Olive, sadly.

"Mocking you! It is very cruel to tell me so," and he turned away with
an expression of deep pain.

Olive began to wake from the bewilderment into which his words had
thrown her. But she could not realise the possibility of Lyle Derwent's
loving _her_, his senior by some years, many years older than he in
heart; pale, worn, _deformed_. For the sense of personal defect which
had haunted her throughout her life was present still. But when she
looked again at Lyle, she regretted having spoken to him so harshly.

"Forgive me," she said. "All this is so