he girl has needles or electricity in
her hand. You can't let go. You begin to feel that friendship, too, can be
dangerous. Next day you send her flowers, with some lines about the
delights of friendship. She accepts both beautifully, but you have a
guilty feeling that you did it to remind her. She does not seem to
understand that there had been any necessity. Still, you feel rather mean,
and to make up for it you try to atone by your manner. She is looking
perfectly lovely. She wears white. You particularly like white. She knows
it. You think perhaps she wore it to please you. _How_ pretty she is! You
lose your head a little and say something. She looks innocent and
surprised. She 'thought we were just friends. Surely,' she says, 'you
have said so often enough. Why change? Friends are so much more
comfortable.' She wants to 'stay a friend.' You are miserable at the idea,
although that morning it was just what you wanted. You were even afraid
she would think differently. What an ass a man can be! You fling
discretion to the winds and tell her--you tell her--well, you go home
engaged to her. That's how a friendship ends. Bah!"

"A realistic recital. From hearsay, of course! The next day the man wishes
he were well out of it, I suppose?"

"Not quite so soon as that, but soon enough."

"Ah, I wish you knew, Charlie Hardy, how all this sounds even to such a
good friend of yours as I am. It is such men as you who lower the standard
of love and of men in general. Do you suppose a girl who has had an
encounter with you, and seen how trifling you are, can have her first
beautiful faith to give to the truly grand hero when he comes? No; it has
been bruised and beaten down by what you call 'a little flirtation,' and
possibly her unwillingness to trust a second time may force her true
lover into withdrawing his suit. How dare men and women trifle with the
Shekinah of their lives? And when it has been dulled by abuse, what a
pitiful Shekinah it appears to the one who approaches it reverently,
confidently expecting it to be the uncontaminated holy of holies! It is
this sort of thing which makes infidels about love."

Charlie began to look sulky, feeling, I suppose, that I was piling the
sins of the universe on to his already burdened shoulders.

"I dare say you are right, but what am I to do?"

"There is only one thing for you to do, but I know you won't do it."

"Yes, I will. Only try me," he said, brightening up.

"You mus