"I'm just a plain beast," he said. "You won't forgive me of course." "You had no right to say what you did. You said 'Calypso'--and I ought not to have heard you.... But I did.... Tell me; if I am too generous to suspect you of intentional impertinence, you are now too chastened to suspect that I came back to give you this chance. That is quite true, isn't it?" "Of course. You _are_ generous and--it's simply fine of you to overlook it." "I don't know whether I intend to overlook it; I was surprised and disappointed; but I _did_ desire to give you another chance. And I was so afraid you'd be rude enough to take it that--I spoke first. That was logical. Oh, I know what I'm doing--and it's particularly common of me--being who I am--" She paused, meeting his gaze deliberately. "You don't know who I am. Do you?" "No," he said. "I don't deserve to. But I'll be miserable until I do." After a moment: "And you are not going to ask me--because, once, I said that it was nice of you not to?" The hint of mockery in her voice edged his lips with a smile, but he shook his head. "No, I won't ask you that," he said. "I've been beastly enough for one day." "Don't you care to know?" "Of course I care to know." "Yet, exercising all your marvellous masculine self-control, you nobly refuse to ask?" "I'm afraid to," he said, laughing; "I'm horribly afraid of you." She considered him with clear, unsmiling eyes. "Coward!" she said calmly. He nodded his head, laughing still. "I know it; I almost lost you by saying 'Calypso' a moment ago and I'm taking no more risks." "Am I to infer that you expect to recover me after this?" And, as he made no answer: "You dare not admit that you hope to see me again. You _are_ horribly afraid of me--even if I have defied convention and your opinions and have graciously overlooked your impertinence. In spite of all this you are still afraid of me. Are you?" "Yes," he said; "as much as I naturally ought to be." "_That_ is nice of you. There's only one kind of a girl of whom men are really afraid.... And now I don't exactly know what to do about you--being, myself, as guilty and horrid as you have been." She regarded him contemplatively, her hands joined behind her back. "Exactly what to do about you I don't know," she repeated, leisurely inspecting him. "Shall I tell you something? I am not afraid to; I am not a bit cowardly about it either. Shall I?" "If you dare," he said, smiling and uncertain. "Very well, then; I rather like you, Mr. Hamil." "You _are_ a trump!" he blurted out, reddening with surprise. "Are you astonished that I know you?" "I don't see how you found out--" "Found out! What perfectly revolting vanity! Do you suppose that the moment I left you I rushed home and began to make happy and incoherent inquiries? Mr. Hamil, you disappoint me every time you speak--and also every time you don't." "I seem to be doomed."