“Oh, no!” she protested. “I want to talk to you,” he declared. “I _must_ talk to you.” “But you had no right! He will tell, and everybody will be talking about it.” “I don’t care if they do.” “But _I_ care, Mr. van Tuiver—you should not have taken such a liberty.” “Please, Miss Castleman,” he hurried on, “please listen to me. I’ve been thinking about it, and it interests me keenly. I believe that in you I might really have a friend—if only you would. A real friend, I mean—who’d tell me the truth—who’d be absolutely disinterested——” The fun of it was too much for Sylvia. “Haven’t I explained to you that I mightn’t be disinterested?” “I’ll trust you.” “Of course,” she went on, gravely. “I might give you my word of honor that I wouldn’t marry you.” “Yes,” he agreed, “I suppose so——” The girl was convulsed with laughter. “Mr. van Tuiver,” she remarked, “I see you are an earnest man; I really ought to stop teasing you. Don’t you think I ought?” “Yes,” he replied, dubiously. “At least—I never liked to be teased before.” “Well, I will tell you this for your comfort. There’s no remotest possibility of my ever marrying you, so you can feel quite safe.” Somehow he did not seem sure whether he was pleased at this pledge. After a pause he went on: “What I mean is that I think a man in my position ought to have somebody to tell him the truth.” “Something like the court-jesters in old days,” said Sylvia. But he was not interested in mediæval customs. He was interested in his own need, and she had to promise that she would admit him to the arcanum of her friendship, and that she would always tell him exactly what she thought about him—his actions, his ideas, even his manners. In fulfilment of which promise she spent the rest of that _séance_, and the two that followed, in listening to him talk about himself and his life.