His voice had grown very unsteady; he lay there looking at her, the smile stamped on his lips. And her faint smile had become fixed, too. "She made no answer," said Diana. "She might have.... Remember, all this is what they _might_ have said." "And did not.... I don’t know what she might have said." ... Suddenly she flung the green sash of leaves from her body, tore the scarlet wood lilies from her hair, and flung them away with a gay, little laugh. "What an idle, silly pair we are," she said. "I’ve had my nap. I’m awake, now." "Was all that a dream?" "You know it was.... It began with a fable—which sent me off to sleep." "It ended in truth—and an awakening—for one of us." "Jim, you’re not pretending to be serious, are you? Goodness!" she added impatiently; "can’t I pretend with you, and not be misunderstood?" He sat up, sprang to his feet, and began to pace the moss. She, resting against the silver birch, watched him, already a little frightened, her heart beginning to beat high and fast. Suddenly he came back and, resting on one knee, bent over beside her. "Did you mean nothing of that? _Nothing?_" "Nothing; why should you be silly enough to suppose——" "I did suppose for a moment." "Jim, you are not pretending to court me, are you?" "Not pretending.... No, I’m not doing it.... How can a beggar think of such a thing as courtship?" "Beggars court most ardently—sometimes," she said, laughing tremulously. "But it’s not hearts they usually court." He knelt there, thinking a moment, head bent. Then he looked up at her. "I have no reason to believe that you care for me," he said—"more than for any other man, I mean." "You have no reason to believe so," she repeated, now thoroughly alarmed at what she’d done; and yet it was what she had deliberately set out to do. Her breath came unevenly. She strove to retain her composure, to recover the ground he seemed to have gained. "Jim," she said, "you are too easily affected by your surroundings. A few trees, a summer sky, and a girl are destruction to you." "You don’t think that," he said quietly. "I do, indeed. Witness my fate, and the plight of Christine." He said, watching her: "Do you suppose that there is any sentimentality between Christine Rivett and me?" "Oh, Jim! don’t shuffle——" "She is in love with another man," he said. "Nonsense!" But a strange thrill shot through and through her, and, confused, she bent forward, looking him straight in the face. "Diana! Diana!" he said under his breath, "did you care?" "I?" she said, reddening. "Jim, I am not a baby.... I thought—as everybody thought—but it was of no consequence—except that she is a sweet girl, and you are my friend."