"Oh, I say, come now," expostulated Jim, "I think that is a little too severe. You asked ’Why?’ and I told you ’Why!’" Dora switched round to him and turned a very red little face, illuminated by eyes that flashed with anger, up to his. "You had no right to say what you did just now, because you know I am engaged to Mr Jefferson----" "Lucky man?" sighed Jim. "Are you still regarding me as a person just to be joked with?" demanded Dora, with something like a sob in her voice. "No," said Jim, earnestly, "as a girl to be loved for ever and ever!" Jim’s astonishing comprehensiveness struck Dora dumb for a moment. What _could_ a girl do with a man like this! Dora considered what she could say that would make a good rebuke. And meanwhile she looked (as Jim declared to himself) bewilderingly lovely. "What you said, considering the circumstances," she continued at length, "was dishonourable and ungentlemanly." "I plead guilty on both counts," said Jim. "And so," Dora went on, "I shall not speak to you again--ever." "I think," replied Jim, "that you are taking far too harsh a view of the case. If you will walk round the crescent just _once_ with me, I will try to put myself right in your eyes." "That you can never do," said Dora. But, after a moment’s hesitation, she lifted her skirt and walked on, and Jim, with an overflowing heart, paced along by her side. "I know you are engaged, of course," began Jim, "and I know that I ought not to have said what I did, that being the case." "Then why did you say it?" demanded Dora, with an imperious little stamp of her foot. "I couldn’t help it," said Jim; "you are so pretty. You are the prettiest girl I have ever seen--the prettiest, the daintiest, and the sweetest. There is nothing on earth I wouldn’t do for you, even to the laying down of my life, if that would serve you. I have loved you from the first moment I ever set eyes on you, and I shall never love another girl as long as I live." Thus spoke Jim in the fulness of his heart, and his words were as music in Dora’s ears; for what woman--worthy of the name--would be displeased by such a confession? That was Jim’s speech--those were Jim’s sentiments--hackneyed sentiments enough in all conscience, seemingly, and yet not hackneyed at all, because they were quite fresh and sincere. He meant them, he felt them. Never did love speak more honestly. Yet there was a ring on Dora’s finger--a ring--an emblem of her plighted troth. And this ring seemed to burn into her finger and reproach her for even letting this other lover complete his declaration. "You are making it worse and worse," she said, but not at all crossly. "Well," said Jim, "you know now. You can tell Jefferson what I’ve said if you like. I’ve told you I love you, and why. I’ve got it off my mind, and I shan’t be so miserable now." "Have--have you been miserable?" asked Dora, very gently. "Yes," said Jim. "_Very?_" "As miserable," said Jim, "as a man could be."