"Two years!" he interjected contemptuously. "Well! You needn't talk! I've known you two months," she flashed out. "Do you think I'm going to desert Clare for you, even if--even if----" She stopped suddenly. He beamed. "You do. Don't you, darling?" he said. "I don't. I don't. I don't want to. I mustn't. I don't know why I'm even talking to you like this. It's ridiculous. Of course, there can never be any one but Clare." "Yes, it is ridiculous," he said impatiently. She faced him angrily. "Yes, very ridiculous, isn't it? Not to leave a person in the lurch--a person whom you love dearly, and who loves you. You can laugh. It's easy to laugh at women being friends. Men always do. They think it funny, to pretend women are always catty, and spiteful, and disloyal to each other." "I've never said so or thought so," said Roger. "You have! You do! Look at the way you've talked about Clare. That looks as if you thought me loyal and a good friend, doesn't it? What would Clare think of me--when I've let her be sure she can have me always--when I've promised her----" "At nineteen! Miss Hartill's generous to allow you to sacrifice yourself----" "It's no sacrifice! Can't you understand that I care for her--awfully. Why--I owe her everything. I was a silly, ignorant schoolgirl, and she took me, and taught me--pictures, books, everything. She made me understand. Of course, I love my dear old Elsbeth--but Clare woke me up, Roger. You don't know how good she's been to me. I owe her--all my mind----" "And your peace?" he asked significantly. She softened. "You know I'm grateful. I don't forget. But she's such a dreadfully lonely person. You've got The Dears, at least. She's queer. She can't help it. She doesn't make friends, though every one adores her. She's only got me. She wants me. How could I go when she wants me--when she's so good to me?" "Is she?" he said. "Yesterday----" "I was a fool yesterday," said Alwynne quickly. "Of course, I get on her nerves sometimes. But it's always my fault--honestly. You don't know what she's like, Roger, or you wouldn't say such things. I hate you to misunderstand her. How could I care for her so, if she were what you and Elsbeth think?" He looked at her innocent, anxious face, and sighed. "All right, my dear. Stick to your Clare. As long as you're happy, I suppose it's all right. Well, I'd better be off. Where's Elsbeth?" "Be off? Where?" Alwynne looked startled. "To pack my traps. I'm going home." "Oh, Roger, you're not angry with me?" "I am, rather," he said. "But you needn't mind me. You don't, do you?" She looked at him piteously. "Good-bye," he said. He shook hands perfunctorily and turned away. "You're angry--oh, you are!" cried Alwynne, following him. He laughed. "You can't pay Clare without robbing Roger. Don't worry, Alwynne." "Are you really going?" she said wistfully. "Yes. Any message?" "You'll write to me, won't you?" "Good Lord, no!" said Roger, with immense decision.