“Now you are 'talking for victory,'” he smiled. “You don't believe we must be as consistent as all that. Hearts don't have to be coddled like pears picked for market. But I'm not preaching to you. The heavens forbid! I'm trying to explain. You don't think this whole thing with me is a pose? I know I'm a bore with my convictions; but how do we come by such things?” “Ah! How do I come not to have any, or to want any?” she rejoined. “Once for all, let me tell you how I came by mine. Then you will know just where and how those cries for help take hold on me.” “I don't wish to know. Preserve me from knowing! Why didn't you choose somebody different?” He looked at her with all his passion in his eyes. “I did not choose. Did you?” “It isn't too late,” she whispered. Her face grew hot in the darkness. “Yes; it is too late--for anything but the truth. Will you listen, sweet? Will you let the nonsense wait?” “Deeper and deeper! Haven't we reached the bottom yet?” “Go on! It's the dearest nonsense,” she heard him say; but she detected pain in his voice and a new constraint. “What is it? What is the 'truth'?” “Oh, it's not so dreadful. Only, you always put me in quite a different class from where I belong, and I haven't had the courage to set you right.” “Children, children!” a young voice called, from the lighted walk above. Two figures were going down the line, one in uniform keeping step beside a girl in white who reefed back her skirts with one hand, the other was raised to her hair which was blowing across her forehead in bewitching disorder. Every gesture and turn of her shape announced that she was pretty and gay in the knowledge of her power. It was Chrissy, walking with Lieutenant Lane. “Where are you--ridiculous ones? Don't you want to come with us?” “'Now who were they?'” Paul quoted derisively out of the dark. “We are going to Captain Dawson's to play Hearts. Come! Don't be stupid!” “We are not stupid, we are busy!” Moya called back. “Busy! Doing what?” “Oh, deciding things. We are talking about the Poor Man.” “The poor men, she means.” Christine's high laugh followed the lieutenant's speech, as the pair went on. “He _is_ a bore!” Moya declared. “We can't even use him for a joke.” “Speaking of Lane, dear?” “The Poor Man. Are you sure that you've got a sense of humor, Paul? Can't we have charity for jokes among the other poor things?” Paul had raised himself to the step beside her. “You are shivering,” he said, “I must let you go in.” “I'm not shivering--I'm chattering,” she mocked. “Why should I go in when we are going to be really serious?”