as a result of his strange silence. A delicate
subject requires a deft hand, and he sensed only too keenly his
impotency in this respect. He, therefore, thought it best to avoid as
much as possible any attempts at explanation, at least for the present.

Furthermore, he was entirely ignorant of her opinion of Anderson. Of
course, he would have given worlds to know this. But there seemed no
reasonable hope that that craving would be satisfied. He was persuaded
that the man had made a most favorable impression upon her, and if that
were true, he knew that it were fruitless to continue further, for
impressions once made are not easily obliterated. Poor girl! he thought.
She had seen only his best side; just that amount of good in a bad man
that makes him dangerous,--just that amount of interest which often
makes the cleverest person of a dullard.

Hence she was still an enigma. As far as he was concerned, however,
there had been little or no variation in his attachment to her. She was
ever the same interesting, lovely, tender, noble being; complete in her
own virtues, indispensable to his own happiness. Perhaps he had been
mistaken in his analysis of her; but no,--very likely she did care for
the other man, or at any rate was beginning to find herself in that
unfortunate state--fortunate, indeed, for Anderson, but unfortunate for
him.

For this reason, more than for any other, he had desisted from saying
anything that might have lessened Anderson in her regard. It would be
most unfair to interfere with her freedom of choice. When the facts of
the case were revealed in all their fullness, he felt certain that she
would repent of her infatuation, if he might be permitted to so term her
condition. It seemed best to him to await developments before further
pressing his suit.

"Stephen," she said at length. "What are you thinking of me?"

"I--Why?--That is a sudden question. Do you mean complimentary or
critical?"

"I mean this. Have you misjudged my relations with John Anderson?"

"I have thought in my mind----" he began, and stopped.

Marjorie started. The voice was quiet enough but significant in tone.

"Please tell me," she pleaded. "I must know."

"Well, I have thought that you have been unusually attentive to him."

"Yes."

"And that, perhaps, you do care for him,--just a little."

There! It was out. She had guessed aright.

"I thought as much," she said quietly.

"Then why did you ask me?"

"Listen,"