“Yes,” she answered, rather breathlessly. “You must think it's rather an odd thing to say, as I ask leave. It is; and I hardly know how to say it. I want to tell you that I've made bold to depend a great deal upon your good opinion for my peace of mind, of late, and that I can't well do without it now.” She stole the quickest of her bird-like glances at him, but did not speak; and though she seemed, to his anxious fancy, poising for flight, she remained, and merely looked away, like the bird that will not or cannot fly. “You don't resent my making you my outer conscience, do you, and my knowing that you're not quite pleased with me?” She looked down and away with one of those turns of the head, so precious when one who beholds them is young, and caught at the fringe of her shawl. “I have no right,” she began. “Oh, I give you the right!” he cried, with passionate urgence. “You have the right. Judge me!” She only looked more grave, and he hurried on. “It was no great harm of her to ask me; that's common enough; but it was harm of me to go if I didn't quite respect her,--if I thought her silly, and was willing to be amused with her. One hasn't any right to do that. I saw this when I saw you.” She still hung her head, and looked away. “I want you to tell me something,” he pursued. “Do you remember once--the second time we talked together--that you said Dunham was in earnest, and you wouldn't answer when I asked you about myself? Do you remember?” “Yes,” said the girl. “I didn't care, then. I care very much now. You don't think me--you think I can be in earnest when I will, don't you? And that I can regret--that I really wish--” He took the hand that played with the shawl-fringe, but she softly drew it away. “Ah, I see!” he said. “You can't believe in me. You don't believe that I can be a good man--like Dunham!” She answered in the same breathless murmur, “I think you are good.” Her averted face drooped lower. “I will tell you all about it, some day!” he cried, with joyful vehemence. “Will you let me?” “Yes,” she answered, with the swift expulsion of breath that sometimes comes with tears. She rose quickly and turned away. He did not try to keep her from leaving him. His heart beat tumultuously; his brain seemed in a whirl. It all meant nothing, or it meant everything. “What is the matter with Miss Blood?” asked Dunham, who joined him at this moment. “I just spoke to her at the foot of the gangway stairs, and she wouldn't answer me.”