“And then,” continued Miss Minot, “if only she did not take it as she does--if she were only angry, or indifferent, or revengeful even--but she loves him still and she would do anything for him. She would be capable to-morrow of sacrificing herself and her love if she thought it would make him happier. Such devotion is as rare as genius.” Miss Cahill leaned far forward, tracing out the delicate inlaid pattern of the table with the point of her silver letter-opener. “If I were engaged to a man,” she said, thoughtfully, “and were to discover that he had treated a girl so, I would give him up, no matter what it cost me.” “And you, Miss Minot?” said Cahill, “what would you do?” He felt a sudden, sharp curiosity as to her answer, and a vague apprehension of what she would say. The girl lifted her head proudly. “It would not be any effort for me to give such a man up,” she said, quietly. Cahill stood up restlessly. This girl had touched upon something which he would have liked to forget. Of course it had been greatly different in his case, he assured himself, but he felt uneasy and sore. And then he smiled. There was something which struck him as pathetically amusing in the seriousness of these two girls. They were so young and untried and utterly unworldly, and they took such a tragic view of such a common-place affair, and were so ready to be sacrificed for their high ideals and principles. “You are very severe,” he said at length, with a rather forced laugh. “If we are all to be judged like that it will go hard with us.” But he could attempt no excuse or explanation with the girl’s beautiful, indignant eyes upon him, and presently the talk drifted off in other channels.