nate girl, Cynthia," he said.

She leaned back in her chair, looking up at him with clear, grey eyes
that met his with absolute freedom.

"I'm not a girl at all, Jack," she said. "I gave up all my pretensions
to youth many, many years ago."

He nodded, still faintly smiling.

"You were about nineteen, weren't you?"

"No. I was past twenty-one." A curious note crept into her voice; it
sounded as if she were speaking of the dead. "It--was just twelve years
ago," she said.

Babbacombe's eyebrows went up.

"What! Are you past thirty? I had no idea."

She laughed at him--a quick, gay laugh.

"Why, it's eight years since I first met you."

"Is it? Great heavens, how the time goes--wasted time, too, Cynthia! We
might have been awfully happy together all this time. Well"--with a
sharp sigh--"we can't get it back again. But anyhow, we needn't squander
any more of it, if only you will be reasonable."

She shook her head; then, with one of those quick impulses that were a
part of her charm, she sprang lightly up and gave him both her hands.

"No, Jack," she said. "No--no--no! I'm not reasonable. I'm just a
drivelling, idiotic fool. But--but I love my foolishness too well ever
to part with it. Ever, did I say? No, even I am not quite so foolish as
that. But it's sublime enough to hold me till--till I know for certain
whether--whether the thing I call love is real or--or--only--a sham."

There was passion in her voice, and her eyes were suddenly full of
tears; but she kept them upturned to his as though she pleaded with him
to understand.

He looked down at her very kindly, very steadily, holding her hands
closely in his own. There was no hint of chagrin on his clean-shaven
face--only the utmost kindness.

"Don't cry!" he said gently. "Tell me about this sublime foolishness of
yours--about the thing you call--love. I might help you, perhaps--who
knows?--to find out if it is the real thing or not."

Her lips were quivering.

"I've never told a soul," she said. "I--am half afraid."

"Nonsense, dear!" he protested.

"But I am," she persisted. "It's such an absurd romance--this
of mine, so absurd that you'll laugh at it, just at first. And
then--afterwards--you will--disapprove."

"My dear girl," he said, "you have never entertained the smallest regard
for my opinion before. Why begin to-day?"

She laughed a little, turning from him to brush away her tears.

"Sit down," she said, "and--and smoke--those horrid