When at the end of the stipulated six months she refused him again,--just as coldly as at first,--it was a bitter surprise to him. If a man had acted so, Longman would have unhesitatingly called him a cad. He went away to the mountains to think it out. In a week he was back, proposing again. Once more she became angry. When she said "no," she meant "no." She did not want to marry him and did not think she ever would. He had asked to be her friend. Well. She enjoyed his friendship, but if he was going to bother her every few days with distasteful proposals of marriage it made friendship impossible. For two weeks he struggled with himself in solitude, torn between his desire to see her and his pride. Then he went to a meeting where he knew she would speak and walked home with her. So it had recommenced and so it had continued--in all three years. A deep camaraderie had grown between them. They knew each other better than many couples who have been married twice as long. But Longman could see no progress towards the consummation he so earnestly desired. During the three years there had been alternate moods of hope and despair. At times he thought she surely must come to love him. At other times the half loaf of intercourse tasted bitter as quinine. He told himself that he was a weak fool, a spectacle for the gods to laugh at, hanging to the skirts of a woman who had no care for him. At times he said, "Let all the rest go hang, to-day's sweet friendship is better than nothing." There were sad and angry moments when he paced up and down in his study and cursed her and himself and his infatuation--and the next moment he wanted to kiss the dust she had trod upon. But steadily the torment of their relationship grew worse. More and more insistent had become the idea of going away. Perhaps she would miss his friendship and call him back. But he had been too deeply enslaved to dare so drastic a revolt. However, that morning had brought him mail which had suddenly crystallized this idea. He had resolved to put it to the test. "Mabel," he said as they entered Washington Square, "if you're not too tired let's go up to the Lafayette for a while. I've got something important to talk over with you." A look of vexation crossed her face, which, with quick and painful sensitiveness, he interpreted. "No," he said gravely, "I won't bore you with any professions of affection. It's a business matter on which I'd like your advice." "Why not come up to the flat; we've some beer, and Eleanor's been making some fudge. It's more comfortable than that noisy café." "Very well, then," he said stiffly. "I'll leave you at your door." "Now, Walter--don't be a fool. What are you so sour about to-night? You haven't opened your mouth for six blocks." "You know very well that I can't talk with "Saph" on the job--she hates me. I'd like to talk this over with you."