"You mean I won't misunderstand you," replied he amiably, as he set about fixing his tie. "You've been mulling things over in your mind. You've decided I'm secretly pining for you. You've resolved to be good and kind and dutiful--generous--to feed old dog Tray a few crumbs now and then. . . . That's nice and sweet of you--" He paused until the crisis in tying was passed--"very nice and sweet of you--but--There's nothing in it. All I ask of you for myself is to see that I'm comfortable--that Mrs. Lowell and the servants treat me right. If I don't like anything, I'll speak out--never fear." "But--Fred--I want to be your wife--I really do," she pleaded. He turned on her, and his eyes seemed to pierce into the chamber of her thoughts. "Drop it, my dear," he said quietly. "Neither of us is in love with the other. So there's not the slightest reason for pretending. If I ever want to be free of you, I'll tell you so. If you ever want to get rid of me, all you have to do is to ask--and it'll be arranged. Meanwhile, let's enjoy ourselves." His good humor, obviously unfeigned, would have completely discouraged a more experienced woman, though as vain as Dorothy and with as much ground as he had given her for self-confidence where he was concerned. But Dorothy was depressed rather than profoundly discouraged. A few moments and she found courage to plead: "But you used to care for me. Don't I attract you any more?" "You say that quite pathetically," said he, in good-humored amusement. "I'm willing to do anything within reason for your happiness. But really--just to please your vanity I can't make myself over again into the fool I used to be about you. You'd hate it yourself. Why, then, this pathetic air?" "I feel so useless--and as if I were shirking," she persisted. "And if you did care for me, it wouldn't offend me now as it used to. I've grown much wiser--more sensible. I understand things--and I look at them differently. And--I always did _like_ you." "Even when you despised me?" mocked he. It irritated him a little vividly to recall what a consummate fool he had made of himself for her, even though he had every reason to be content with the event of his folly. "A girl always thinks she despises a man when she can do as she pleases with him," replied she. "As Mr. Tetlow said, I was a fool." "_I_ was the fool," said he. "Where did that man of mine lay the handkerchief?" "I, too," cried she, eagerly. "You were foolish to bother about a little silly like me. But, oh, what a _fool_ I was not to realize----" "You're not trying to tell me you're in love with me?" said he sharply. "Oh, no--no, indeed," she protested in haste, alarmed by his overwhelming manner. "I'm not trying to deceive you in any way." "Never do," said he. "It's the one thing I can't stand." "But I thought--it seemed to me--" she persisted, "that perhaps if we tried to--to care for each other, we'd maybe get to--to caring--more or less. Don't you think so?"