The question was indeed a very perplexing one. How should he even begin the proposed conversation? Should he begin by abruptly telling Evelyn that he loved her, but that there were reasons why he did not want her to give him love in return? That was not the way in which a woman had a right to expect to be wooed. It would be a direct affront to her womanly and maidenly pride, which she would promptly, and bitterly, and quite properly, resent. Moreover, by arousing her anger and resentment, it would utterly defeat his purpose, which was to find out his own duty by finding out how far Evelyn had already learned to think of him as a possible lover. Should he, then, ask her that question, in her own singularly direct and truthful way of dealing? That would be to affront and wound her by the assumption that she had given her love unasked. Should he begin by explaining to her the circumstances which prompted him to shrink from wooing her, and then offer her his love if she wanted it? Nothing could be more preposterous than that. Should he simply pay her his addresses, ask her for her love, and then, if she should give it, proceed to explain to her the reasons why she should not have permitted herself to love such a man as he? That question also promptly answered itself in the negative, with emphasis. What, then, should he do? Clearly it would be better to await Evelyn’s return to Wyanoke, and trust to good luck to open some possible way. At any rate, he might there approach the subject in indirect ways; while if he could have ridden over to Branton for the express purpose of having a conference with her, no such indirection would have been possible. His very going to her there would have been a declaration of some purpose which he must promptly explain. Obviously, therefore, it was better that he should not go to Branton, but should await such opportunity as good fortune might give him after Evelyn’s return to Wyanoke. But that necessity postponed the outcome, and Kilgariff was in a mood to be impatient of delay, particularly as every hour consciously intensified his own love, and rendered him less and less capable of saying nay to his passion. With her woman’s quickness of perception, Dorothy shrewdly guessed what was going on in his mind, and she rejoiced in it. But she made no reference to the matter, even in the most remotely indirect way. She simply went about her tasks with a pleased and amused smile on her face. XXVIII EVELYN’S BOOK, CONCLUDED WHEN Dorothy took up Evelyn’s manuscript again, it was nine o’clock in the evening of the second day, and, moved by her eagerness to follow the story, even more than by her conscientious desire to finish it before the author’s return on the morrow, she read late into the night. But she had sent Evelyn a note in the late afternoon, in which she had written:—