“Why do you waste time talking?” said the girl. “Every moment is precious. Go, or you are lost.” “That sounds like the stage,” replied Bob. She came closer, her temperamental gaze burning. “Will this make you serious?” she asked almost fiercely. “I told.” “Eh?” “I told all,” she repeated. “You did?” “Yes.” “When?” “Last night.” “Hum!” said Bob. “That makes it a little worse, that is all.” “I was mad,” she said, “at the way you—you—” “I think I understand.” “Why—why don’t you get angry and—” “And curse you the way they do in plays?” He laughed a little mirthlessly. “What’s the use? It wouldn’t do any good if I dragged you around by the hair.” “It’s just that attitude of yours,” she said, breathing hard, “that has made me perfectly furious.” “Who’d you tell?” Bob eyed her contemplatively. “Lord Stan—The monocle-man, as you call him.” “Whew!” Bob whistled. “You went straight to headquarters, didn’t you?” “He came up to me on the porch just after you had left, and—and—” “It’s quite plain,” said Bob gently. “You couldn’t hold in. Don’t know as I ought to blame you much.” “I wish you wouldn’t act like that,” she returned passionately. “Don’t you hate me?” He looked at her from his superior height. “No. Now that I think of it, you only did the right and moral thing. After all”—he seemed to be speaking from the hammer-thrower’s high judicial plane—“it was your duty to tell.” “Duty!” she shot back at him. “I didn’t do it for that, or”—with sudden scorn—“because it was the moral thing. I did it because—because you—you had hurt me and—and I wanted to hurt you the worst way—the very worst way I could—” “Well, that sounds very human,” replied Bob soothingly. “It’s the old law. Eye for an eye! Tit for tat! _Quid pro quo!_” That hammer-thrower was getting him into the Latin habit. “You must not speak like that. You _must_ hate me—despise me—I betrayed you—betrayed—” Bob looked at her sympathetically. She really was suffering. “Oh, no, you didn’t. You only thought you did,” he said. “I did! I did! And afterward I felt like Salome with the head of John the Baptist.” Bob twisted his handsome head and lifted a hand to his neck. “Well, it’s really not so bad as that,” he returned in a tone intended to be consoling. “Anyhow, it’s very brave of you to come and tell me about it.” “Brave!” she scoffed, the temperamental breast rising. “Why, I just blurted it all right out—how I discovered you in my room—how I turned on the light and how you dropped the brooch to the floor!” For a few moments both were silent. Then Bob spoke: “How’d it be, if we called bygones, bygones, and just be friends?” he said gravely. “Honestly, I believe I could like you an awful lot as a friend.” “Don’t!” she said hoarsely. “Or—or I can’t hold in. My! but you are good.” “Isn’t that the sound of music?” said Bob suddenly. “I—I believe it is.”