"Are you engaged to be married?" "No," said she almost instantly, as if without reflecting. Then she blushed violently, and silently rose to go home. XII. VANE wished himself at the bottom of the lake, if that ornamental piece of water were deep enough to drown. It seemed like one of those foolish things one does in a nightmare, without being able to prevent it. Now first he saw how impossible it was to go on and talk to her--to preach a sermon to her--as he had thought he intended. It would mortally offend her if she were not mortally offended already. What right had he to criticise her conduct, particularly when criticism would certainly imply disapproval? With all his reproach came a glow of satisfaction. She was certainly not in love with any one, she had answered so instantly. Then with this thought came the sting again that he had wounded her. "I--I saw you at the theatre the other night." Miss Thomas remained silent. "Were you not at the theatre with Mr. Ten Eyck?" persisted Vane. "I was at the theatre with my brother," replied Miss Thomas, icily. "Mr. Ten Eyck sat in his seat for a few moments, I believe. Will you stop that car, if you please, it is getting so late." Vane did so with an ill grace. He had counted on the walk home to alter her impressions, and now this opportunity was lost. They took seats and sat for several blocks in silence. Vane looked at her covertly, and saw that the flush of indignation had given place to pallor, and that she looked grieved. He could have wrung his own neck. Coming finally to her door, he felt that he must say something. He stood a moment on the stoop. Then, "Miss Thomas, please forgive me," he said gravely. She hesitated a moment. "Are you offended?" he added, for the sake of something to say. "Pray forgive me. I had a reason for asking, and an excuse." "I might forgive you," she said, with her hand on the door, "but it would have been better for you not to have said it." She opened the door and went into the house, leaving Vane on the threshold with a distinct impression that she was going to cry. He walked along, mechanically, in the direction of his rooms, feeling his cheeks burn. That he had bungled--that he had committed a social gaucherie, he knew well enough; but what troubled him more than this was that he had given her real cause for offence, he had hurt her. If she could only know what pain this thought brought to him! Fool that he was, he had worn his clumsy, jejune mask of cynicism, and had not once shown to her his truer self. He was more at fault than the world was; and she was not of the world, and he had blamed her for it.