ow what I was talking about. It
isn't a question of whether you _could_ love her. You've just got to.
You can't do anything else. It's like seven devils or seven angels
entering into and possessing you. There they are before you know
what's happened. Afterward, when you find out what's struck you, maybe
it's too late. Or maybe there'd never have been any hope, anyhow."

"'While there's life, there's hope,'" quoted Eileen.

"But what if life's parted you from her?"

"I wouldn't let it, if I were a man. I wouldn't allow the girl to go
out of my life. It doesn't sound a _strong_ thing to do."

"It might be, though, in some circumstances. For instance, if a girl
showed you very plainly she couldn't be bothered with you, it would be
weak to run after her, wouldn't it?"

"I wonder," said Eileen, "if a man's a good judge of why a girl does
things that she does? Of course, I don't _know_ much. But I feel he
mightn't be. It's so difficult for girls and men to understand each
other, really. Now there's my brother Rags and our cousin Pobbles--I
mean, Portia. Pobbles is her nickname. You know we're great on the
most endlessly quaint nicknames in our family. She's quite a distant
cousin of ours, otherwise she wouldn't have such lots of money as she
has. _We're_ church mice. We'd be church worms if there were any! But
Rags was in love with Pobbles for years, and she wouldn't believe it.
She thought, because she's not exactly pretty, it must be her money he
wanted. They never understood each other a bit. You mustn't say
anything about this, and I won't say anything about what you tell
_me_. You _will_ tell me about the girl, won't you? Maybe I can help.
You see, though I don't know so very much about men yet--except
Rags--I know a whole lot about girls."

"There isn't much to tell," said Petro. "I met a girl in rather a
queer way--sort of romantic, it seemed to me. And the minute I saw her
she stood out quite different from any one else I'd ever seen, like a
red rose in a garden of pale-pink ones. I couldn't get her face out of
my mind, or her voice out of my ears. She was like my idea of a dryad.
It seemed she might turn into a tree if a man looked at her too long.
But I didn't know I was in love. I thought she just appealed to me,
fascinated me somehow or other. And I wanted to do things for her all
the time. I was always thinking of some excuse to be where she was. I
was looking forward to doing a lot more things--I suppose i