you together."

The assertion was too much for credence. She was thrown back on the
hypothesis of trickery. "You?"

"Yes, Rosie. Has Claude never told you that he's more to me than any one
in the world, except--" He paused; he panted; he tried to keep it back,
but it forced itself out in spite of his efforts--"except you." Once
having said it, he repeated it: "Except you, Rosie; except--you."

Though he was still leaning toward her across the desk, his head sank.
There was silence between them. It was long before Rosie, the light in
her eyes concentrated to two brilliant, penetrating points, crept
forward from the sheltering mass of foliage. She could hardly speak
above a whisper.

"Except--who?"

He lifted his head. She noticed subconsciously that his face was no
longer wild, but haggard. He spoke gently: "Except you, Rosie. You're
most to me in the world."

As she bent toward him her mouth and eyes betrayed her horror at the
irony of this discovery. She would rather never have known it than know
it now. It was all she could do to gasp the one word, "Me?"

"I shouldn't have told you," he hurried on, apologetically, "but I
couldn't help it. Besides, I want you to understand how utterly I'm your
friend. I ask nothing more than to be allowed to help you and Claude in
every way--"

She cried out. The thing was preposterous. "You're going to do
that--_now_?"

"I'm your big brother, Rosie--the big brother to both of you. That's
what I shall be in future. And what I've said will be a dead secret
between us, won't it? I shouldn't have told you, but I couldn't help it.
It was stronger than me, Rosie. Those things sometimes are. But it's a
secret now, dead and buried. It's as if it hadn't been said, isn't it?
And if I should marry some one else--"

This was too much. It was like the world slipping from her at the minute
she had it within her grasp. The horror was not only in her eyes and
mouth, but in her voice. "Are you going to marry some one else?"

"I might have to, Rosie--for a lot of reasons. It might be my duty. And
now that I can't marry you--"

She uttered a sort of wail. "Oh!"

"Don't be sorry for me, Rosie dear. I can't stand it. I can stand it
better if you're not sorry--"

"But I _am_," she cried, desperately.

"Then I must thank you--only don't be. It will make me grieve the more
for saying what I never should have said. But that's a secret between
us, as I said before, isn't it? And if I do mar