yourself,
haven't you?"

He shrugged his shoulders as if the subject did not interest him and
set off at a gait that compelled her horse to a rapid walk. She said
presently:

"I'm going to live at the old place alone for the present. You'll come
to see me?"

He looked at her. "No," he said. "As I told you a moment ago, that's
over. You'll have to find some one else to amuse you--for, I
understand perfectly, Jane, that you were only doing what's called
flirting. That sort of thing is a waste of time--for me. I'm not
competent to judge whether it's a waste for you."

She looked coldly down at him. "You have changed since I last saw
you," she said. "I don't mean the change in your manner toward me. I
mean something deeper. I've often heard that politics makes a man
deteriorate. You must be careful, Victor."

"I must think about that," said he. "Thank you for warning me."

His prompt acceptance of her insincere criticism made her straightway
repentant. "No, it's I that have changed," she said. "Oh, I'm
horrid!--simply horrid. I'm in despair about myself."

"Any one who thinks about himself is bound to be," said he
philosophically. "That's why one has to keep busy in order to keep
contented." He halted. "I can save a mile and half an hour by
crossing these fields." He held the wounded bird in one hand very
carefully while he lifted his hat.

She colored deeply. "Victor," she said, "isn't there any way that you
and I can be friends?"

"Yes," replied he. "As I told you before, by becoming one of us.
Those are impossible terms, of course. But that's the only way by
which we could be of use to each other. Jane, if I, professing what I
do profess, offered to be friends with you on any other terms, you'd be
very foolish not to reject my offer. For, it would mean that I was a
fraud. Don't you see that?"

"Yes," she admitted. "But when I am with you I see everything exactly
as you represent it."

"It's fortunate for you that I'm not disposed to take advantage of
that--isn't it?" said he, with good-humored irony.

"You don't believe me!"

"Not altogether," he confessed. "To be quite candid, I think that for
some reason or other I rouse in you an irresistible desire to pose. I
doubt if you realize it--wholly. But you'd be hard pressed just where
to draw the line between the sincere and the insincere, wouldn't
you--honestly?"

She sat moodily combing at her horse's mane.

"I know it's c