“That they want to marry me.” Checked but not discouraged, Latimer attacked in force. “I can quite believe that,” he agreed, “but there's this important difference: no matter how much a man wants to marry you, he can't LOVE you as I do!” “That's ANOTHER thing they think,” sighed Helen. “I'm sorry to be so unoriginal,” snapped Latimer. “PLEASE don't!” pleaded Helen. “I don't mean to be unfeeling. I'm not unfeeling. I'm only trying to be fair. If I don't seem to take it to heart, it's because I know it does no good. I can see how miserable a girl must be if she is loved by one man and can't make up her mind whether or not she wants to marry him. But when there's so many she just stops worrying; for she can't possibly marry them all.” “ALL!” exclaimed Latimer. “It is incredible that I have undervalued you, but may I ask how many there are?” “I don't know,” sighed Helen miserably. “There seems to be something about me that--” “There is!” interrupted Latimer. “I've noticed it. You don't have to tell me about it. I know that the Helen Page habit is a damned difficult habit to break!” It cannot be said that he made any violent effort to break it. At least, not one that was obvious to Fair Harbor or to Helen. One of their favorite drives was through the pine woods to the point on which stood the lighthouse, and on one of these excursions they explored a forgotten wood road and came out upon a cliff. The cliff overlooked the sea, and below it was a jumble of rocks with which the waves played hide and seek. On many afternoons and mornings they returned to this place, and, while Latimer read to her, Helen would sit with her back to a tree and toss pine-cones into the water. Sometimes the poets whose works he read made love so charmingly that Latimer was most grateful to them for rendering such excellent first aid to the wounded, and into his voice he would throw all that feeling and music that from juries and mass meetings had dragged tears and cheers and votes. But when his voice became so appealing that it no longer was possible for any woman to resist it, Helen would exclaim excitedly: “Please excuse me for interrupting, but there is a large spider--” and the spell was gone. One day she exclaimed: “Oh!” and Latimer patiently lowered the “Oxford Book of Verse,” and asked: “What is it, NOW?” “I'm so sorry,” Helen said, “but I can't help watching that Chapman boy; he's only got one reef in, and the next time he jibs he'll capsize, and he can't swim, and he'll drown. I told his mother only yesterday--” “I haven't the least interest in the Chapman boy,” said Latimer, “or in what you told his mother, or whether he drowns or not! I'm a drowning man myself!” Helen shook her head firmly and reprovingly. “Men get over THAT kind of drowning,” she said. “Not THIS kind of man doesn't!” said Latimer. “And don't tell me,” he cried indignantly, “that that's ANOTHER thing they all say.”