“It’s like this!” said Bob, ruffling his hair. Here was a fine romantic way to make an avowal. “You see I was in love with you,” he observed, looking the other way and addressing one of the furthermost stars of the heaven. “And—and—when a fellow’s in love—and he can’t—ah!—well, you know—ask the girl—you understand?” “Very vaguely,” said Miss Gerald. Bob’s explanation, so far, was one of those explanations that didn’t explain. If he had so heroically made up his mind not to see her, he could have stayed away, of course, from the Ralston house. He couldn’t explain how he was bound to accept the invitation to come, on account of being in “honor bound” to that confounded commodore, et al., to do so. There were bound to be loose ends to his explanation. Besides, those other awfully unpleasant things that had happened? He had to tell the truth, but he couldn’t tell why he was telling the truth. That had been the understanding. Miss Gerald, at this point, began to display some of those alert and analytical qualities of mind that had made her father one of the great railroad men of his day. For an instant she had turned her head slightly at Bob’s avowal—who shall say why? It may be she had felt the blood rush swiftly to her face, but if so a moment later she looked at him with that same icy calm. One hand had tightened on the cold balustrade, but Bob hadn’t noticed that. She plied him now with a number of questions. She kept him on the gridiron and while he wriggled and twisted she stirred up the coals, displaying all the ability of an expert stoker. He was supersensitive about seeing her and yet as a free agent (she thought him that) he _had_ seen her. From her point of view, his mental processes were hopelessly illogical—worse than that. Yet she knew he was possessed of a tolerable mentality and a good-enough judgment for one who had in his composition a slight touch of recklessness. “I give it up,” she said at length wearily. “Do you? Oh, thank you!” exclaimed Bob gratefully. “And if your aunt orders me from the place—” “But why can’t you just go, if you want to? I’m sure no one will detain you.” Haughtily. “Can’t explain, only it’s impossible. Like Prometheus bound to the rock for vultures to peck at, unless—” “How intelligible! And what a happy simile—under the circumstances!” with far-reaching scorn. “What if I should tell my aunt that her guest compared himself to—?” “That’s the idea!” returned Bob enthusiastically. “Tell her that! Then, by jove, she would—Promise me! Please!” “Of course,” said the girl slowly, “my diagnosis must be wrong.” Or perhaps she meant that she had lost faith in that glitter-theory. “If you only _could_ understand!” burst from Bob explosively. It was nature calling out, protesting against such a weight of anguish.