“Why attempt an explanation, doctor?” she asked, and her disdain showed so plainly that he colored with indignation. “Because I desire to set myself right in your eyes,” he answered. “With what object?” His eyes did not fall before the challenge in hers, while a warm, sunny smile lightened the severe lines of his stubborn chin and determined mouth. “Object--matrimony,” he retorted, and she detected the twinkle in his eyes and the faint mockery discernible in his voice. Her resolve was instantly taken; she would meet him on the ground he had chosen--woman’s wit against man’s intelligence was a game old when Methuselah was young. She rose and dropped Thorne a half courtesy, balancing herself on the rock with graceful ease. “On so short an acquaintance your jest is flattering, but ill-timed.” She paused, then added, “I thank you--and decline.” “Wait.” He laid down the switch of witch-hazel and drew nearer. “Our acquaintance is not so short; it commenced six years ago in New York.” Vera stared at him intently. “I fail to recollect,” she began, and paused uncertainly. Instead of answering verbally he took out his leather wallet and, searching among its contents, finally produced a black-edged visiting-card. On the reverse side were traced the words: February 14--In grateful remembrance. CHAPTER XI MRS. PORTER GROWS INQUISITIVE A SILENCE followed, so heavy as to be felt, then Vera took the black-edged card and, reversing it, read the engraved name. A rush of memories obliterated the bleak countryside. In its place she saw a busy city street, a swaying figure, a cry for help, the later clang of the emergency ambulance--and the last agonizing parting from her beloved mother. She had been conscious of the aid rendered by the skilful hospital interne, but her mother had focused her attention to the exclusion of all else. After the funeral she had sent a present with her card “In grateful remembrance” to the city hospital authorities, asking them to see that it reached the surgeon who had attended her mother. A sudden rush of tears almost blinded Vera, and the card fluttered to the rock unheeded. “Dr. Thorne”--her voice was not fully under control and a quiver crept into it--“I did not know--I had no idea--” She stammered and broke down. “Don’t.” Thorne swung himself up on the rock beside her and gazed at her with contrition. “Please don’t cry.” But the injunction was hardly needed, for Vera pulled herself together, and except for a few tears which she winked violently away, she had herself in hand again as she faced him. “The card--” she commenced, but he did not allow her to finish the sentence. “The card,” he echoed, stooping to pick it up, “would never have been shown you except that I knew of no other way to break down your unfriendly attitude to me. Please,” coloring warmly under his tan, “never allude to it again.”