“You’d rather be by yourself?” cried poor Tom. “Oh, Cis, you’ve played fair with me! You’re nice to me, but you’re nothing more. I won’t be able to blame you, but if you won’t love me, what under the heavens shall I do? Say, Cis, love me, can’t you? I’m not such a much, but I ain’t so bad, honest! I don’t care how far you hunt, you won’t find anything I’ve done to be ashamed of. I ain’t fit for you lots of ways; you’ve got kind of fine ladified, though I don’t mean you put on. You’re it, that’s all! But I’m not a bad chap, that’s straight, and if I was I’d tell you; I wouldn’t fool you for a kingdom. I’m getting on; I make thirty now, and two people could live on fifteen hundred, easy--and the sixty dollars would buy us each some clothes, and theatre tickets, or something! And I’ll have more soon. My boss makes a point of boosting married men--oh, gosh! A married man! Married to _you_, Cis! Say, Cis, don’t you think you could see it, if you looked hard enough? Love me, I mean?” “Tom, dear,” said Cis a little wistfully, for the honest boy’s voice shook, and his eyes were as imploring as a dog’s eyes. “I like you heaps, better than before I went away. I didn’t know you so well then, and besides you’ve come out a great deal. But I couldn’t love you, Tommy; not that way. I’m sorry, dear. You are a fine boy, and the girl who does marry you will be lucky. It never will be me, and it wouldn’t be right to let you think it ever might be. Sorry, Tom! I wish you didn’t think you wanted me. You’d be better off with someone else, and you’ll find her--” “Cut it out!” cried Tom hoarsely. “Cut out that line of talk, Cicely Adair! You’re the greatest girl in the world. There’s no one can hold a candle to you, so cut it out! If you won’t, you won’t, but cut out all that talk. I want you, and I’ll keep on wanting you. If you don’t want me, and don’t want me so much that you know you’ll never want me, that settles it, but I want you. Oh, Cis, why can’t you want me? What is wrong with me? How can you be so infernally sure you’ll never think of it? Am I such a mess? Would you tell me why, Cis?” Cis looked pityingly at Tom’s flushed, stormy face, listened with tender, pitying amusement to his incoherent implorations. She tried to explain.