, "you never did care--at all."

But even at this juncture Miss Tennant could not speak the truth.

"Never, David--never at all--at least not in _that_ way," she said. "If
I let you think so it was because I thought it would help you to be
strong and to succeed.... God knows I think I was wrong to let you think
so...."

But she broke off suddenly a stream of extenuation that was welling in
her mind; for David did not look like a man about to be cut off in the
heyday of his youth by despair.

She had the tenderest heart; and in a moment the truth blossomed
therein--a truth that brought her pleasure, bewilderment, and was not
unmixed with mortification.

"The man," she said gently, "has found him another girl!"

The man bowed his head and blushed.

"But I have kept my promise, Dolly."

"Of course you have, you poor, dear, long-suffering soul. Oh, David,
when I think what I have been taking for granted I am humiliated, and
ashamed--but I am glad, too. I cannot tell you how glad."

A pair of white gloves, still showing the shape of her hands, lay in the
chair where Miss Tennant had tossed them. David brought her one of these
gloves.

"Put it on," he said.

When she had done so, he took her gloved hand in his and kissed it.

"As a matter of form," he said.

She laughed easily, though the blush of humiliation had not yet left her
cheeks.

"Tell me," she said, "what you would have done, David, if--if I _did_
care."

"God punish me," he said gravely, "oh, best friend that ever a man had
in the world, if I should not then have made you a good husband."

Not long after McAllen was with her.

"Well?" he said.

"Well," said she, "there was a train that he could catch. And I suppose
he caught it."

"How did he--er, behave?"

"Considering the circumstances," said she, "he behaved very well."

"Is he hard hit?"

She considered a while; but the strict truth was not in that young lady.

"I think," she said, "that you may say that he is hard hit--very hard
hit."

"Poor soul," said Billy tenderly.

"Oh, Billy!" she exclaimed, "I feel so false and so old."

"Old!" he cried. "You! You at twenty-five say that to me at----"

"It isn't as if I was _just_ twenty-five, Billy," and she burst out
laughing. "The terrible part of it is that I'm still twenty-five."

But he only smiled and smiled. She seemed like a little child to him,
all innocence, and inexperience, and candor.

Then as her laughter merged in