The poet laughed a little. "Beautiful child," said he--and that, under similar circumstances, was his perfectly reasonable name for her--"I have been discourteous. To be frank, I have been sulking as irrationally as a baby who clamours for the moon yonder." "You aren't really anything but a baby, you know." Indeed, Margaret almost thought of him as such. He was so delightfully naïf. He bent toward her. A faint tremor woke in his speech. "And so," said he, softly, "I cry for the moon--the unattainable, exquisite moon. It is very ridiculous, is it not?" But he did not look at the moon. He looked toward Margaret--past Margaret, toward the gleaming windows of Selwoode, where the Eagle brooded: "Oh, I really can't say," Margaret cried, in haste. "She was kind to Endymion, you know. We will hope for the best. I think we'd better go into the house now." "You bid me hope?" said he. "Beautiful, if you really want the moon, I don't see the _least_ objection to your continuing to hope. They make so many little airships and things nowadays, you know, and you'll probably find it only green cheese, after all. What _is_ green cheese, I wonder?--it sounds horribly indigestible and unattractive, doesn't it?" Miss Hugonin babbled, in a tumult of fear and disappointment. He was about to spoil their friendship now; men were so utterly inconsiderate. "I'm a little cold," said she, mendaciously, "I really must go in." He detained her. "Surely," he breathed, "you must know what I have so long wanted to tell you--" "I haven't the _least_ idea," she protested, promptly. "You can tell me all about it in the morning. I have some accounts to cast up to-night. Besides, I'm not a good person to tell secrets to. You--you'd much better not tell me. Oh, really, Mr. Kennaston," she cried, earnestly, "you'd much better not tell me!" "Ah, Margaret, Margaret," he pleaded, "I am not adamant. I am only a man, with a man's heart that hungers for you, cries for you, clamours for you day by day! I love you, beautiful child--love you with a poet's love that is alien to these sordid days, with a love that is half worship. I love you as Leander loved his Hero, as Pyramus loved Thisbe. Ah, child, child, how beautiful you are! You are fairest of created women, child--fair as those long-dead queens for whose smiles old cities burned and kingdoms were lightly lost. I am mad for love of you! Ah, have pity upon me, Margaret, for I love you very tenderly!" He delivered these observations with appropriate fervour. "Mr. Kennaston," said she, "I am sorry. We got along so nicely before, and I was _so_ proud of your friendship. We've had such good times together, you and I, and I've liked your verses so, and I've liked you--Oh, please, _please_, let's keep on being just friends!" Margaret wailed, piteously.