"But you were laughing," she protested incredulously. "I took it for a joke." "I'm always laughing," he said grimly; "but I wish I hadn't been then. It was so serious that I couldn't be. But it's no good explaining that; you can't understand." Her mind was set on something different--on something to her of more moment than a man's absurd reasons for being trivial. It was some time before she spoke. "You asked her to marry you?" she pondered slowly, only half in question, as though scarcely able to realize what he had done. "I did," he said; "how else should we be engaged?" "Oh, dozens of ways," she answered: "she might have asked you." "Well, she didn't," he said stoutly. "I wonder if you know," she mused; "men don't. And did you want to marry her?" "Would I have asked her otherwise?" he demanded. "Oh, yes," she sighed; "very possibly. Men often propose because they can think of nothing else to say. And have you wanted to be married long?" "What do you mean?" he said. "Three months?" she queried. The light little head was tilted sideways in old fascinating way. It was not so dark but he might have seen it had he not been staring at the stars. He might even have noticed, had he looked closer, how wide her eyes were, and how unsteady the small mouth. "Why three months?" he said. "Wasn't it three months ago we were at Bramley Park?" she went on reflectively. "Can you still remember what you told me there?" "Was it different from what I'd told you everywhere?" he parried. "No--o!" she murmured, with a long wavering breath; "not until to-night. You said you could never, while I lived, think of marrying another woman." "Yes," he assented; "I remember. We were looking down at the moonlight on the lake." "We were," she said. "And you had your hand on mine. You put it there; you put it there as you spoke. Were you thinking how wonderfully easy it was to fool a woman?" "I've never fooled you, nor tried to fool you," he answered quietly. "I've cared for you too much for that. No, not in the common way; but because you've always been such an honest and good friend to me. Some women insist on being fooled; they make any sort of truth to them impossible. You made a lie." "So it seems now," she said wistfully. "No," he replied, "it seems now just the opposite. But I can't help that." "You could have helped it ... once," she said. "Oh, we can always help things once," he objected. "Did you know her when we were at Bramley?" "Yes, very slightly." "Very slightly, only three months ago," she repeated incredulously. "Yes," he said. There was a pause. Ethel Vernon's fingers were playing nervously with a ring. "When did you want to marry her?" she asked at length. He hesitated in his turn. "I can't tell you that," he said. "Why?" she questioned. "Don't you know?" "I know perfectly," he said. "Well?" she queried. Then, as he made no response, "Haven't I the right to know?"