"And why would I not understand?" he answered, grimly. "Is it something shady he has done to you?--for if it is, by the Holy Mother, I'll murder him." "No, no, it's nothing shady. But I can't tell you, Dick; and oh, Dick! I'm just wretched, and I don't know what to do." The tears were very near. A whimsical look came into his face as he watched her. "Moyra, me dear; 'tis about ten shillings apiece we're paying for them ices; and if you splash them with your darling tears, the chef will give notice and that coon with the banjo will strike work." "You dear, Dick," she whispered, after a moment, while a smile trembled round her mouth. "I nearly made a fool of myself." "Divil a bit," he answered. "But let us be after discussing them two fair things yonder while we gets on with the ices. 'Tis the most suitable course for contemplating the dears; and, anyway, we'll take no more risks until we're through with them." And so with a smile on his lips and a jest on his tongue did a gallant gentleman cover the ache in his heart and the pain in his eyes, and felt more than rewarded by the look of thanks he got. It was not for him to ask for more than she would freely give; and if there was another man--well, he was a lucky dog. But if he'd played the fool--yes, by Heaven! if he'd played the fool, that was a different pair of shoes altogether. His forehead grew black at the thought, and mechanically his fists clenched. "Dick, I'd like to tell you just how things are." He pulled himself together and looked at the girl. "It is meself that is at your service, my lady," he answered, quietly. "I'm engaged. But it's a secret." His jaw dropped, "Engaged!" he faltered. "But--who to? And why is it a secret?" "I can't tell you who to. I promised to keep it secret; and then he suddenly went away and the war broke out and I've never seen him since." "But you've heard from him?" She bit her lip and looked away. "Not a line," she faltered. "But--I don't understand." His tone was infinitely tender. "Why hasn't he written to you? Violet girl, why would he not have written?" "You see, he's a----" She seemed to be nerving herself to speak. "You see, he's a German!" It was out at last. "Mother of God!" Dick leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on her, his cigarette unheeded, burning the tablecloth. "Do you love him?" "Yes." The whispered answer was hardly audible. "Oh, Dick, I wonder if you can understand. It all came so suddenly, and then there was this war, and I know it's awful to love a German, but I do, and I can't tell anyone but you; they'd think it horrible of me. Oh, Dick! tell me you understand." "I understand, little girl," he answered, very slowly. "I understand." It was all very involved and infinitely pathetic. But, as I have said before, Dick O'Rourke was a gallant gentleman. "It's not his fault he's a German," she went on after a while. "He didn't start the war--and, you see, I promised him."