A look of melancholy came into his face. He said with a quaint smile, “They began it. They don’t care about me.” “Why not?” “What a foolish question!” “You’re mistaken,” said she. “Any woman would _like_ you, and if a woman fell in love with you she’d be crazy about you.” He laughed boyishly as at a huge joke. “You’re a peculiar sort of man--a sort not many women would appreciate. If you find one who does, you’ll see that I was right. She’ll be a peculiar sort of woman and she’ll belong to you.” There was pathos in his expression of gratitude. She saw it, understood it--and the tears welled into her eyes. What a lonely, fascinating figure of a man--so different from all other men--so modest about himself--and with such incredibly luminous eyes, tender yet strong. She was looking directly at him. The changing expression of his eyes terrified her--fascinated her. He stood up, and his gesture compelled her to stand also--and to look at him. He stretched out his powerful arm. She tried to draw back; she could not. “I believe,” said he in an awed, hushed voice, his eyes looking at her wonderingly, “I believe _you_ are the woman.” He had misunderstood, she said to herself. Then-- “No,” she thought, “I’ve been leading him on. What a foolish, bad thing to do! And he thinks I was in earnest--when nothing could induce me----” He interrupted her thoughts with, “Yes--you _are_ the woman!” He had her shoulders in his grasp now and was looking down at her with an expression of sheer amazement, mingled with a tenderness that sent a thrill and a hot wave of--yes, of delight--through her. This man-- She, Eleanor Clearwater, tolerate the touch of this man and--_delight_ in it! “That is absurd!” she cried hysterically. She looked at him with pleading eyes. “Let me go--please.” He lifted his hands from her shoulders. Then--how it happened she never could understand--she, trying to draw back, was drawn forward--into his arms--had been kissed by him--was in a whirl of joy, of terror, of wonder, of disbelief in the reality of what was happening. She, who prided herself on never having allowed any man to be in the least familiar with her--she in the arms of this bucolic person whom she hardly knew. It was impossible--it was insane. “Please let me go,” she said feebly. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me!” He was holding her at arm’s length again--this powerful man, with the compelling eyes-- If only he would not look at her so, she might recover herself. He was saying in the sweetest, tenderest voice she had ever heard: “_You_--for _me_! It simply can’t be, Miss Clearwater.” “Some woman will care for you--as I told you,” she said in a breathless way. “But not I. You told me once you wouldn’t have me.” “But I didn’t know you then,” replied he. “Now--I’ve _got_ to have you!” She gave a cry of dismay. “Oh--don’t say that--please!” she pleaded. “I’m sure you don’t want me.”