She looked straight at him. "But one did--_one did_," she whispered, choking. He pulled his hands free of his pockets. "One--one," he said huskily. "Who?" And now everything was clear to her. She knew just what to say. She had no feelings of self; the duty was not hateful, nor embarrassing. "Who?" she repeated. "Don't you know, Mr. Lounsbury? Why, Marylyn." "Marylyn," he echoed as if in a puzzle; "Marylyn. You're joking!" She caught a shade of reproach in that, and misunderstood it. "I reckon you won't like her so well now," she said. "Like her so well? I don't know what you mean." "She--she likes you," stammered Dallas. Still he was puzzled. "I _supposed_ she didn't hate me." "But now you know." There was no mistaking her. Utterly dumfounded, he could not trust an immediate answer. "I see, I see," he said finally. "And you'll like her just the same?" He drew a deep breath. His eyes were on her face, trying to read it in the dimness. Then, "I am not a cub boy, Miss Dallas." "You won't stay away," she persisted. "You'll come." "If I'm judging right, I mustn't. I'm--I'm sorry." "Sorry!--just sorry." He strode back and forth a few times. "Why--why, Miss Dallas, you must understand that a man can't--when a girl----Well, it'd be low for me to talk about it, that's all--out and out _low_." Something stirred her powerfully then--something she combated, and concealed from him by a touch of apparent anger. "There's nothing low about it," she said. "A man ought to be proud. Oh," as he was about to reply, "you don't know how she's felt. She's been sick over it, white and sad, and at night she'd cry." He winced. "And you're just sorry!" "When did you find this out?" "That day you drove Matthews away. She told me." He walked about again. "I can't see why she does," he mused pathetically. "I can't remember doing anything." "But you've been so good to us--even after the way dad acted--guarded out here, and sent that land-office man down from Bismarck----" He made a protesting gesture. "Pshaw!" "Oh, yes, you did. And why? _Why?_--if you don't care----" A long silence followed. During it she watched him, her very attitude imploring, while he continued to pace. All at once he stopped determinedly. "There's a reason," he said, "why I can't do what you ask: Come to see Marylyn, and--and all that." "Dad? Ah, he's got to think like me." "No; not your father." "Maybe"--the bitterness of Mrs. Cummings' slight impelled it--"maybe you don't think she's good enough." "Dallas! No! No!" He put out a hand to her. She retreated. "There's a reason." He let his arm fall. "And it is fair and square. I'm proud of it, too, and you must hear it." His tone was significant, tender. No hint of his meaning suggested itself to her. "Then I want to know it," she said.