“And I was miserable, too, Larry,” she said gently. “It seemed a pity that this should happen on our last night.” All her wrath was gone. She was once more the Jane that Larry had always known, gentle, sweet, straightforward, and on her face the old transfiguring smile. Before this change of mood all his irritation vanished. Humbled, penitent, and with a rush of warm affection filling his heart, he said, “I should have known you were not to blame, but you are always right. Never once in all these years have you failed me. You always understand a fellow. Do you know I am wondering how I shall ever do without you? Have you thought, Jane, that to-morrow this old life of ours together will end?” “Yes, Larry.” Her voice was low, almost a whisper, and in her eyes an eager light shone. “It just breaks my heart, Jane. We have been--we are such good friends. If we had only fallen in love with each other.--But that would have spoiled it all. We are not like other people; we have been such chums, Jane.” “Yes, Larry,” she said again, but the eager light had faded from her eyes. “Let's sit a bit, Larry,” she said. “I am tired, and you are tired, too,” she added quickly, “after your hard day.” For a little time they sat in silence together, both shrinking from the parting that they knew was so near. Larry gazed at her, wondering to himself that he had ever thought her plain. Tonight she seemed beautiful and very dear to him. Next to his mother, was her place in his heart. Was this that he felt for her what they called love? With all his soul he wished he could take her in his arms and say, “Jane, I love you.” But still he knew that his words would not ring true. More than that, Jane would know it too. Besides, might not her feeling for him be of the same quality? What could he say in this hour which he recognised to be a crisis in their lives? Sick at heart and oppressed with his feeling of loneliness and impotence, he could only look at her in speechless misery. Then he thought she, too, was suffering, the same misery was filling her heart. She looked utterly spent and weary. “Jane,” he said desperately. She started. She, too, had been thinking. “Scuddy is in love with Helen, Macleod is in love with Ethel. I wish to God I had fallen in love with you and you with me. Then we would have something to look forward to. Do you know, Jane, I am like a boy leaving home? We are going to drift apart. Others will come between us.” “No, Larry,” cried Jane with quick vehemence. “Not that. You won't let that come.”