“I thought—if you were going there today—you might take it—to her,” she hesitated. “Or, I could send it. It is a small matter, of course.” “I think,” he said gravely, “that it is a very serious matter.” She interpreted uncertainly the intent gaze of his beautiful, somber eyes. “I came here,” she faltered, “to—to find a home. I had no wish—” “I understand,” he said, his voice deep and sympathetic; “people have been talking to you—about me. Am I right?” She was silent, a pink flush slowly staining her cheeks. “You have not yet learned upon what slight premises country women, of the type we find in Brookville, arrive at the most unwarrantable conclusions,” he went on carefully. “I did not myself sufficiently realize this, at first. I may have been unwise.” “No, you were not!” she contradicted him unexpectedly. His lifted eyebrows expressed surprise. “I wish you would explain to me—” he began. Then stopped short. How indeed could she explain, when as yet he had not made clear to her his own purpose, which had grown steadily with the passing weeks? “You will let me speak, first,” he concluded inadequately. He hastily reviewed the various phrases which arose to his lips and rejected them one by one. There was some peculiar quality of coldness, of reserve—he could not altogether make it clear to himself: it might well be the knowledge of her power, her wealth, which lent that almost austere expression to her face. It was evident that her wonted composure had been seriously disturbed by the unlucky circumstance of the photograph. He had permitted the time and occasion which had prompted him to write those three fatefully familiar words on the back of the picture altogether to escape him. If he chose to forget, why should Fanny Dodge, or any one else, persist in remembering? And above all, why should the girl have chosen to drop this absurd memento of the most harmless of flirtations at the feet of Lydia? There could be but one reasonable explanation.... Confound women, anyway! “I had not meant to speak, yet,” he went on, out of the clamoring multitude of his thoughts. “I felt that we ought—” He became suddenly aware of Lydia’s eyes. There was no soft answering fire, no maidenly uncertainty of hope and fear in those clear depths. “It is very difficult for me to talk of this to you,” she said slowly. “You will think me over-bold—unmannerly, perhaps. But I can’t help that. I should never have thought of your caring for me—you will at least do me the justice to believe that.” “Lydia!” he interrupted, poignantly distressed by her evident timidity—her exquisite hesitation, “let me speak! I understand—I know—” She forbade him with a gesture, at once pleading and peremptory. “No,” she said. “No! I began this, I must go on to the end. What you ought to understand is this: I am not like other women. I want only friendship from every one. I shall never ask more. I can never accept more—from any one. I want you to know this—now.”