"Oh! but it has. It must have," she protested. "Aren't you trying to buy my good-will all the time? All this is so heroic and theatrical. Aren't you being the splendid benefactor of one of your own plays--being frightfully tactful and oh! _gentlemanly_? It wouldn't be the right thing, of course, to--to put any sort of pressure on me; but you could put us all under every sort of obligation to you, and afterwards--when you came to stay with us--you'd be very forbearing and sad, no doubt, and be very sweet to my mother--she likes you already--but every one would know just why; and you'd all expect me--to--to do the right thing, too." If I had not been truly in love with her I should have been permanently offended by that speech. It stung me. What she implied was woundingly true of that old self of mine which had so recently come under my observation and censure. I could see that; and yet if any one but Anne had accused me I should have gone off in high dudgeon. The hint of red in my hair would not permit me to accept insult with meekness. And while I was still seeking some way to avoid giving expression to my old self whose influence was painfully strong just then, she spoke again. "Now you're offended," she said. I avoided a direct answer by saying, "What you accused me of thinking and planning might have been true of me yesterday; it isn't true, now." "Have you changed so much since yesterday?" she asked, as if she expected me to confess, now, quite in the familiar manner. She had given me an opportunity for the proper continuation. I refused it. "I have only one claim on you," I said boldly. "Well?" she replied impatiently. "You recognised me last night." It was very like her not to fence over that. She had a dozen possible equivocations, but she suddenly met me with no attempt at disguise. "I _thought_ I did," she said. "Just for a minute." "And now? You know...?" She leaned her elbows on the gate and stared out over the moonlit mysteries of the Park. "You're not a bit what I expected," she said. I misunderstood her. "But you can't..." I began. "To look at," she interrupted me. I felt a thrill of hope. "But neither are you," I said. "Oh!" she commented softly. "I've had romantic visions, too," I went on; "of what she would look like when I did meet her. But when I saw you, I remembered, and all the visions--oh! scattered; vanished into thin air." "If you hadn't been so successful..." she murmured.