ttle heap of bread-crumbs.

"I want to apologize," Ralph continued, not quite knowing what he was
about to say, but feeling some curious instinct which urged him to
commit himself irrevocably, and to prevent the moment of intimacy from
passing.

"I think I've treated you very badly. That is, I've told you lies. Did
you guess that I was lying to you? Once in Lincoln's Inn Fields and
again to-day on our walk. I am a liar, Mary. Did you know that? Do you
think you do know me?"

"I think I do," she said.

At this point the waiter changed their plates.

"It's true I don't want you to go to America," he said, looking fixedly
at the table-cloth. "In fact, my feelings towards you seem to be utterly
and damnably bad," he said energetically, although forced to keep his
voice low.

"If I weren't a selfish beast I should tell you to have nothing more to
do with me. And yet, Mary, in spite of the fact that I believe what I'm
saying, I also believe that it's good we should know each other--the
world being what it is, you see--" and by a nod of his head he indicated
the other occupants of the room, "for, of course, in an ideal state of
things, in a decent community even, there's no doubt you shouldn't have
anything to do with me--seriously, that is."

"You forget that I'm not an ideal character, either," said Mary, in
the same low and very earnest tones, which, in spite of being almost
inaudible, surrounded their table with an atmosphere of concentration
which was quite perceptible to the other diners, who glanced at them now
and then with a queer mixture of kindness, amusement, and curiosity.

"I'm much more selfish than I let on, and I'm worldly a little--more
than you think, anyhow. I like bossing things--perhaps that's my
greatest fault. I've none of your passion for--" here she hesitated, and
glanced at him, as if to ascertain what his passion was for--"for the
truth," she added, as if she had found what she sought indisputably.

"I've told you I'm a liar," Ralph repeated obstinately.

"Oh, in little things, I dare say," she said impatiently. "But not in
real ones, and that's what matters. I dare say I'm more truthful than
you are in small ways. But I could never care"--she was surprised to
find herself speaking the word, and had to force herself to speak it
out--"for any one who was a liar in that way. I love the truth a certain
amount--a considerable amount--but not in the way you love it." Her
voice sank, became in