Then it was as if the intrinsic pointedness of that query penetrated the man, suddenly and sharply. It was the mere force of iteration, no doubt; but all at once the soft voice seemed possessed of a certain insistence, tinctured with a certain definite expectation, you might say. Now that Charles stopped to think of it, why was he doing this? The young man's arms fell, as if something had burned them. He rose abruptly and strode away to the mantelpiece, where, however, the Latrobe heater spoiled any hope of an effective pose. If he meant thus to signify that the little episode was closed and done with, life, unluckily, was not quite so simple as that. The pretty Home-Maker, having gazed at his back- or side-view a moment, as if bewildered, said in an uncertain voice:-- "I--I don't understand you at all. Why did you do that?" Putting down the impulse to bolt, and the even more astonishing impulse to return to that fatal sofa, Charles Garrott braced himself to reply. In this effort he was handicapped by emotions altogether unknown to most young men who sit upon sofas. For example: What would the lady in Sweden have to say to this little affair? He confronted a fact which he had temporarily lost sight of: that he who pays these tributes must pay for them to the full. Half of him might feel resentful and furious, but it was clear that the whole of him, the net Charles, must cut a sorry figure for a while. Half of him might be crying out, stern as science itself: "Come, girl, be honest! Don't go about dropping matches into gunpowder, and then pretend to be surprised at the explosion." But the net Charles, brightly flushed, was speaking lamely as a schoolboy:-- "Well! Do you think I could be _blamed_--exactly? It--it seemed such an awfully natural thing to do. You--ah--it seemed I--I couldn't do anything _else_!..." "I see," said the girl slowly. "Ah--you--you're a very kissable person, you must know--" "And do you always go about kissing people you think are kissable?" The young man shrank as from a blow. Not looking once in her direction, he did not note that she had spoken with a quivering lip. With a great effort at lightness, he stammered:-- "Well, hardly! It must be that I don't often meet people who--who are as k-k-kissable as you--" "I suppose I ought to feel flattered." There was a miserable silence. "I was mistaken in you," continued the Nice Girl's stricken voice. "I--I trusted you. I supposed you were too honorable--I didn't think--" That word seemed to touch him to the quick. He spoke with desperate stiffness. "I _am_ honorable, I hope. Miss Flower--aren't you taking this too--too seriously, perhaps? After all, you--" She astonished him by bursting into tears.