“Oh, is that it!” muttered Bart, suddenly growing fierce again. “You take such an interest in me because you think it may be difficult to find somebody to fill my place!” She laughed a little. “No, it is not that, my dear fellow—really it isn’t, I told you I liked you, and it is true. I didn’t like you much at first. I’ll confess that, but there’s something about you that makes me take to you. I rather like your way of getting hot under the collar when somebody rubs you against the grain. I’m pretty independent myself, but I don’t blaze up as you do.” “Look here, Miss Stanley,” said Hodge, seriously. “I want to know something.” “What is it?” “Are you throwing a bluff when you say you like me?” “Not a bit of it.” “And you want me to stay with the company?” “I do.” “I’ll stay on one condition.” “What is that?” “You must give me a promise.” “What promise?” “That you will throw over Lester Vance and Billy Wynne.” Stella Stanley was astonished. “Throw them over?” she exclaimed. “What are you talking about, my dear fellow?” “I am talking what I mean,” breathed Hodge, hurriedly. “One thing you will acknowledge, Miss Stanley—I have not been very forward.” “Indeed, not. You have always acted as a gentleman toward me, Hodge.” “I have not forced my presence. I have not flung myself in your way?” “No.” “No!” exclaimed Hodge. “I am going to tell you something, Stella Stanley. I am something of a woman hater, although I do not go round prating about it and making myself offensive. I believe all women are treacherous—not to be trusted.” The leading lady laughed again. “Well, I must say you are frank, to speak the least!” she exclaimed, showing her handsome, white teeth. “I am truthful,” asserted Bart. “Others might lie about it; I tell you the simple truth.” “And not so simple at that!” “I have come to believe what I do about women through what I have seen of them. They have disgusted me.” Stella stood smiling. She was two or three years older than Bart, and inwardly she was thinking that he was very young, indeed, to have and utter such opinions. “My dear boy!” she exclaimed; “I’m sorry for you!” “Don’t call me a boy!” panted Bart. “I don’t like it. Don’t be sorry for me. I don’t like that.” “Well, what do you like?” “You, you, you!” he hoarsely whispered, leaning toward her, so that she retreated a bit in sudden surprise. “But I thought you were a woman hater?” she said, maliciously. “What is the matter with you? Why aren’t you consistent?” “Don’t ask me to be consistent!” he exclaimed. “I tried to hate you, like all the others. I tried not to pay any attention to you. I tried to avoid you. I couldn’t do it.” “I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended.” “Don’t be either, Miss Stanley. I am not trying to flatter. I hope I shall not offend. I didn’t mean to say this to you. Oh, I meant to keep my mouth shut, but I can’t.” “That’s what ails lots of us,” she observed, with a flippancy that jarred on his nerves.