"You know I love you. You must know I left London and came over here to follow you. But you don’t know how much I care for you—and I can’t tell you. I ’m a duffer at this sort of game—like everything else—I never did it before—and ’pon my word, I don’t know how. But if I could say what I feel, then perhaps, you might know better. What is it to be, Margaret? Wait a bit! If you feel doubtful, I ’ll wait as long as you want me to. But—but—I ’m afraid it’s no go." He sat looking dumbly at her, hoping for some sign of encouragement, but there was no misreading the answer in her face. It was a long minute before she spoke. She was unnerved by the hysterical desire to put her arms around him and soothe him as she might a hurt child. Something of her embarrassment was conveyed to him and with the wish to save her the pain of refusing in words he started as if to rise. She stopped him with a gesture. "Wait. I _will_ say what I want you to know. I like you—no! not in that way; not the way a woman should—the man she expects to marry. Perhaps if you had been—I am not sure—but I could _not_ marry a drone. Oh! why don’t you wake up! How _can_ you go on from day to day with no thought but self-indulgence? You say you love me. Ask yourself: Is not that merely a form of self-indulgence? Oh, I know you would take care of me and defer to me and let me have my way in everything—you are that kind of a man—but to what end? That I might be the more pleasing to you. Is it your purpose to dawdle through life, taking only such pains as shall make things more pleasing to you?" "Is that all, Margaret? Is it only because you fancy I’m a loafer?" "But you are! You are! Oh! I don’t know—I ’m not sure—" "I ’m sure!" the exulting certainty in his voice startled her. "I ’m sure!" he repeated. "I may be a bit of an ass in some things but no woman would care as you care, what a man was or what he did unless she loved him. You love me, Margaret, thank God! Give me a chance. You ’re only a girl, yet. Give me a year and if I go under, or you find I ’m wrong, I ’ll thank you for the chance and never blame you. Will you?" Her heart was pounding in suffocating throbs and she trembled like a leaf in the wind before the eager intensity of his gaze. A strong will held her in check, else she had given way then and there, but she faced him with a fine bravery. "Yes," she promised, "I will. Go away and make good." "Make good! By Jove, that’s what your father said. Make good—I ’ll not forget it." His head bent low in an old-fashioned but becoming salute while her free hand rested unfelt for an instant upon the yellow hair, a gesture that was at once a blessing and a prayer. CHAPTER III BUCK MAKES FRIENDS