"It makes all the difference in the world, George," retorted Mrs. Carmichael, who for some reason or another was considerably put out. "You don't want Mr. Travers to think that Lois was picked up in the street, do you?" "Of course not," her husband agreed, "but then--" He broke off, and all three relapsed into an awkward silence. Travers was the first to speak. He had been looking out over the garden and had seen Lois' white dress flash through the bushes. "For my part," he began quietly, "I can not see that what you have told me can have an influence on the matter. I love Lois. That is the chief thing--or rather the chief thing is whether or not she can learn to love me. Whether she is the child of a sweep or a prince, it makes no difference to my feelings toward her." Mrs. Carmichael held out her hand. "Well, whatever happens, you are a man before you are a prig," she said, "and that is something to be thankful for in these degenerate days. Why, there is the child herself! Come here, my dear." Lois came running up the verandah steps with Stafford close behind her. Her eyes were full of laughter and sunshine, and in her hand she held a mass of roses which Stafford had gathered during their ramble. "Good-evening, Mr. Travers," she exclaimed with pleased surprise, as he rose to greet her. "I did not expect to find you here. How grave you all look! And what lovely flowers!" Travers considered his bouquet with a rueful smile. "I brought them from my garden, Miss Caruthers," he said. "They were meant for to-night's festivity. But it seems they have come too late--you are already well supplied." "Flowers never come too late and one can never have too many of them!" Lois answered gratefully. "Please bring them in here and I will put them in water." She led the way into the drawing-room and he followed her eagerly. Whether it was the sight of her charm and youth, or the warm greeting which he had read in her eyes, or the satisfied calm on Stafford's face, Travers himself could not have told, but in that moment he lost his usual self-possession. He was white and shaken like a man who sees himself thrust suddenly to the brink of a chasm and knows that he must cross or fall. "Miss Caruthers!" he said. She turned quickly from the flowers which she was arranging in a bowl. The smile of pleasure which still lingered about her lips died away as she saw his face. "Miss Caruthers," he repeated earnestly, "it is perhaps neither wise nor right of me to speak now, but there are moments when anything--even the worst--is better than uncertainty, when a man can bear no more. Forgive me--I am not eloquent and what I have to tell can be encompassed in one word. I love you, Lois. I think you must know it, though you can not know how great my love is. Is there any hope for me?" She drew her hand gently but firmly from his half-unconscious clasp. "I am sorry--no," she said. "Lois--I can't give up hope. Is there some one else?"