ys such stupid things--though I was
apparently, for that one moment. And what I said about Gladys was
childish; I am not jealous of her, Captain Selwyn. Don't think me silly
or perverse or sentimental, will you?"

"No, I won't."

She smiled at him with a trifle less courage--a trifle more
self-consciousness: "And--and as for what I called you--"

"You mean when you called me by my first name, and I teased you?"

"Y-es. I was silly to do it; sillier to be ashamed of doing it. There's
a great deal of the callow schoolgirl in me yet, you see. The wise,
amused smile of a man can sometimes stampede my self-possession and
leave me blushing like any ninny in dire confusion. . . . It was very,
very mean of you--for the blood across your face did shock me. . . .
And, by myself, and in my very private thoughts, I do sometimes call
you--by your first name. . . . And that explains it. . . . Now, what
have you to say to me?"

"I wish to ask you something."

"With pleasure," she said; "go ahead." And she settled back, fearlessly
expectant.

"Very well, then," he said, striving to speak coolly. "It is this: Will
you marry me, Eileen?"

She turned perfectly white and stared at him, stunned. And he repeated
his question, speaking slowly, but unsteadily.

"N-no," she said; "I cannot. Why--why, you know that, don't you?"

"Will you tell me why, Eileen?"

"I--I don't know why. I think--I suppose that it is because I do not
love you--that way."

"Yes," he said, "that, of course, is the reason. I wonder--do you
suppose that--in time--perhaps--you might care for me--that way?"

"I don't know." She glanced up at him fearfully, fascinated, yet
repelled. "I don't know," she repeated pitifully. "Is it--can't you help
thinking of me in that way? Can't you be as you were?"

"No, I can no longer help it. I don't want to help it, Eileen."

"But--I wish you to," she said in a low voice. "It is that which is
coming between us. Oh, don't you see it is? Don't you feel it--feel what
it is doing to us? Don't you understand how it is driving me back into
myself? Whom am I to go to if not to you? What am I to do if your
affection turns into this--this different attitude toward me? You were
so perfectly sweet and reasonable--so good, so patient; and now--and now
I am losing confidence in you--in myself--in our friendship.
I'm no longer frank with you; I'm afraid at times--afraid and
self-conscious--conscious of you, too--afraid of what seem