She winds her arms about my neck, quite slowly, tenderly, the breath of her pink quivering nostrils fans me right in the face; she strokes down my shoulders with her left hand, and says, "What a lot of loose hair there is." "Yes," I reply. "What can be the reason that your hair falls out so?" "Don't know." "Ah, of course, because you drink too much, and perhaps ... fie, I won't say it. You ought to be ashamed. No, I wouldn't have believed that of you! To think that you, who are so young, already should lose your hair! Now, do please just tell me what sort of way you really spend your life--I am certain it is dreadful! But only the truth, do you hear; no evasions. Anyway, I shall see by you if you hide anything--there, tell now!" "Yes; but let me kiss you first, then." "Are you mad?... Humph, ... I want to hear what kind of a man you are.... Ah, I am sure it is dreadful." It hurt me that she should believe the worst of me; I was afraid of thrusting her away entirely, and I could not endure the misgivings she had as to my way of life. I would clear myself in her eyes, make myself worthy of her, show her that she was sitting at the side of a person almost angelically disposed. Why, bless me, I could count my falls up to date on my fingers. I related--related all--and I only related truth. I made out nothing any worse than it was; it was not my intention to rouse her compassion. I told her also that I had stolen five shillings one evening. She sat and listened, with open mouth, pale, frightened, her shining eyes completely bewildered. I desired to make it good again, to disperse the sad impression I had made, and I pulled myself up. "Well, it is all over now!" I said; "there can be no talk of such a thing happening again; I am saved now...." But she was much dispirited. "The Lord preserve me!" was all she said, then kept silent. She repeated this at short intervals, and kept silent after each "the Lord preserve me." I began to jest, caught hold of her, tried to tickle her, lifted her up to my breast. I was irritated not a little--indeed, downright hurt. Was I more unworthy in her eyes now, than if I had myself been instrumental in causing the falling out of my hair? Would she have thought more of me if I had made myself out to be a _roué_?... No nonsense now;... it was just a matter of going at it; and if it was only just a matter of going at it, so, by the living... "No;... what do you want?" she queried, and she added these distressing words, "I can't be sure that you are not insane!" I checked myself involuntarily, and I said: "You don't mean that!" "Indeed, God knows I do! you look so strangely. And the forenoon you followed me--after all, you weren't tipsy that time?" "No; but I wasn't hungry then, either; I had just eaten...." "Yes; but that made it so much the worse." "Would you rather I had been tipsy?" "Yes ... ugh ... I am afraid of you! Lord, can't you let me be now!"