“Is that the reason you like me, Eris?” he persisted--“because you consider me kind?” “What do you think it is?” she murmured, still smiling a little to herself. “I’m not certain you like me as well as you once did.” The boy obvious, suddenly! The eternal and beloved ass that every woman is destined to meet. And forgive. “I--think I do,” she said. “Like me as well as you once did?” “Yes.” “Oh! My conversation still amuses you. But otherwise--well, I’m afraid you don’t care quite as much for me as you did, Eris.” “Why?”--with slow lifted eyes. “Because I kissed you.” The ass obvious, at last! She made no reply. Perhaps he hoped for shy denial--for some diffident evasion anyway. Her unembarrassed silence troubled him because he had not really harboured the fear he pretended. Now, however, the possibility made him uneasy. “Glance into your mirror, Eris,” he said lightly, “and tell me how I could have helped what I did.” Her face, partly averted, remained so, unflushed, unresponsive. Hattie opened the kitchen door and looked in, bulking like a vast, dark cloud. “You may come in and clear up,” said Eris quietly. She rose from the table and they walked into the farther room and seated themselves, she on the sofa, with an untroubled aloofness that did not encourage him to closer approach than a chair pulled up opposite her. She had turned to some of his flowers as though to include them in a friendly circle. “Your roses are such heavenly company,” she said in a low voice. “I never knew anybody so charmingly interested in flowers,” he said with smiling malice. She understood, laughed, turned to him. “I’m interested, also, to hear how your novel is progressing,” she said. “It isn’t.” “Haven’t you worked?” she inquired with sweet concern. “No.” “Why not?” “Because,” he said deliberately, “my mind is too full of you to contain anything else.” A pause: “Then,” she said, “you had better not see me until you feel inclined to resume work.” “You don’t seem to care very much,” he remarked. She was looking again at the roses. She made no reply. The cold, rosy loveliness of her enthralled and chilled him. Where the chestnut hair touched her cheek a carnation flush warmed the slight shadow. “I’ll resume work,” he said abruptly. She nodded, her face close to the roses. “How would you like me to make a scenario of my last novel for you?” he asked. He had prepared this surprise during the two days’ separation--had even visualised her delight. If he expected emotional response, the impulsive gratitude that hitherto had so charmingly over-valued his little gifts, he was to be stunningly disappointed. She turned and looked at him out of frankly troubled eyes; and from that moment he learned that whatever he ever was to have from this girl would be only what her honesty could offer. “I couldn’t play such a part,” she said.... “You are most kind.... But I never could be able to do it.” “Why? Do you think it would prove too difficult?”