that matters--"

He went toward the door. Then stopped. He thought he had heard her
calling his name. He returned slowly.

"Did you call me?"

"No, no."

All at once he came to her tempestuously, catching her arm as he would a
naughty child's.

"Drina, I won't be turned away like this. In heaven's name what have I
done that you should treat me like this? At least tell me!"

She did not struggle against his hold, but turned away her head without
answer.

"Was it my first letter? You didn't like me to write that way--so
soon--so soon after breaking the engagement? Was that it? It was, wasn't
it?"

It seemed to him, though he could not be sure, that her head made a
little affirmative nod.

"But what was wrong?" he cried in dismay. "You wouldn't have me be
insincere. You know and I know what you meant to me, you know that if I
went on with Doris after--after that night, it was only from a sense of
duty, of loyalty. Yes, because you yourself came to me and begged me to.
If that's true, why not be open about--"

"Hush," she said hastily. "Some one will hear."

"I don't care if they all hear," he said recklessly. "Drina, what's the
use of pretending. You know I've been in love with you, you and only
you, from the first day I saw you."

She drew her arm from his grasp and turned on him defiantly--

"Thanks-- I don't care to be second fiddle!" she said spitefully.

"Good heavens, that is it!"

"Yes, that is it," she cried out and breaking from him she fled around
the corner of the verandah and it seemed to him that he had caught the
sound of a sob.

He entered the house, a prey to conflicting emotions, perplexed, angry,
inclined to laugh, with alternate flashes of hope and as sudden relapses
into despair. Just as he had made up his mind that she had left for the
night, she reappeared without a trace of concern. But try as he might he
did not succeed in getting another opportunity to speak to her. She
avoided him with a settled cold antagonism. The next day it was the
same. It seemed that everything she did was calculated to wound him and
display her hostility. He had neither the strength nor the wisdom to
respond with indifference, suffering openly. At ten o'clock that night
as he was miserably preparing to enter the automobile that was to take
him to the station, Patsie came hurriedly down the steps, something
white in her hand.

"Please do something for me," she said breathlessly.

"What is it?"

"A