It was out at last, and confirmed once more in her knowledge of men, she retorted gaily: "How can I know if you won't take the trouble to tell me?" After all, she reflected cheerfully, the education she had derived from George and Judge Crowborough, though lacking in the higher branches, was fundamentally sound. All men were alike in one thing at least--they invariably disappointed one's expectations. "I've been trying to tell you for a quarter of an hour," he answered, "and I didn't know how to put it." "But at last you didn't have to put it at all," she said laughingly; "it simply put itself, didn't it?" "I am still wondering," he persisted gravely. "Wondering if I know?" She spoke in the sweetly practical tone of one who is firmly resolved not to permit any nonsense. "Yes, I do know--that is, I know there are ways in which I might be useful to you." "For instance?" "Well, there are some little--some very little things I might tell you if we were friends--real friends," she made this plain, "just as two men might be." "But the very last things two men would tell each other," he was laughing now, "are the little things--the things about slang and walking-sticks and oak furniture." So he hadn't forgotten! The recollection of her impertinence confused her, and she hastened to make light of it by protesting gaily: "I was only joking. Of course, you didn't take that seriously." "I don't know how much more seriously," he replied emphatically, "I could have taken it." "But you haven't thought of it since?" "What would you say if I told you I hadn't thought of anything else?" "Then I wish I hadn't said it." She was obviously worried by his admission. "It was horrid of me--perfectly horrid. I ought to have been ashamed of myself. I had no right to criticise you, and you have been so heavenly kind." "After that"--he appeared to be hammering the idea into her mind--"I was so grateful I'd have done almost anything. Do you know," he burst out with evident emotion, "that was the first criticism--I mean downright honest criticism--I've ever had in my life. Nobody--that is nobody who knew--ever thought enough of me before to tell me where I was wrong." It was all a pathetic mistake, she saw, but she saw also that it was impossible for her to explain it away. She could not tell him the ugly truth that she had been merely laughing at him when he had believed, in his beautiful simplicity, that she was speaking as a friend. Though she felt ashamed, humbled, remorseful, there was nothing that she could say now which would not hurt him more than the original misunderstanding had done. In her desire to atone as far as possible, she remarked recklessly: "I only wish I could be of some real help to you." "You can," he answered frankly. "You can let me come to see you sometimes before I go West again." "You are going back in the spring?"