"I did not see it," he protested, lamentably.

"No?"

"I wasn't thinking of it."

"Indeed! You were 'lost in thoughts of '--"

"Of you!" he said, before he could check himself.

"Yes?" Her tone was as quietly contemptuous as she could make it. "How
very frank of you! May I ask: Are you convinced that speeches of that
sort are always to a lady's liking?"

"No," he answered humbly, and hung his head. Then she threw the question
at him abruptly:

"Was it you who came to sing in our garden?"

There was a long pause before a profound sigh came tremulously from the
darkness, like a sad and tender confession. "Yes."

"I thought so!" she exclaimed. "Mrs. Tanberry thought it was someone
else; but I knew that it was you."

"Yes, you are right," he said, quietly. "It was I. It was my only way to
tell you what you know now."

"Of course!" She set it all aside with those two words and the slightest
gesture of her hand. "It was a song made for another girl, I believe?"
she asked lightly, and with an icy smile, inquired farther: "For the
one--the one before the last, I understand?"

He lifted his head, surprised. "What has that to do with it? The music
was made for you--but then, I think all music was made for you."

"Leave the music out of it, if you please," she said, impatiently. "Your
talents make you modest! No doubt you consider it unmaidenly in me to
have referred to the serenade before you spoke of it; but I am not one
to cast down my eyes and let it pass. No, nor one too sweet to face the
truth, either!" she cried with sudden passion. "To sing that song in the
way you did, meant--oh, you thought I would flirt with you! What right
had you to come with such a song to me?"

Tom intended only to disclaim the presumption, so far from his thoughts,
that his song had moved her, for he could see that her attack was
prompted by her inexplicable impression that he had assumed the attitude
of a conqueror, but his explanation began unfortunately.

"Forgive me. I think you have completely misunderstood; you thought it
meant something I did not intend, at all, and--"

"What!" she said, and her eyes blazed, for now she beheld him as the
arrant sneak of the world. He, the lady-killer, with his hypocritical
air of strength and melancholy sweetness, the leader of drunken revels,
and, by reputation, the town Lothario and Light-o'-Love, under promise
of marriage to Fanchon Bareaud, had tried to make love to another girl,
and