Before a door marked "Andrew Bernard, Attorney at Law," she stopped and waited a frightened moment for breath and courage. As though the pounding of her heart had really sounded as loud as it felt, the door handle turned abruptly, and a very tall, broad-shouldered, grave-faced young man greeted her with attractive astonishment. "Good morning, Drew," she began politely. "Why, I haven't seen you for a year." Then, with alarming vehemence, she finished: "Are you all alone? I want to talk with you." Her breathlessness, her embarrassment, her fragile intensity sobered the young man instantly as he led her into his private office and stood for a moment staring inquiringly into her white face. Her mouth was just as he had last seen it a year ago, fresh and whimsical and virginal as a child's; but her eyes were scorched and dazed like the eyes of a shipwreck survivor or any other person who has been forced unexpectedly to stare upon life's big emotions with the naked eye. "I hear you've been ill this spring," he began gently. "If you wanted to talk with me, Ruthy, why didn't you let me come out to the house and see you? Wouldn't it have been easier?" She shook her head. "No," she protested, "I wanted to come here. What I've got to talk about is very awkward, and if things get too awkward--why, an embarrassed guest has so much better chance to escape than an embarrassed host." She struggled desperately to smile, but her lips twittered instead into a frightened quiver. With narrowing eyes the young man drew out his big leather chair for her. Then he perched himself on the corner of his desk and waited for her to speak. "Ruthy dear," he smiled, "what's the trouble? Come, tell your old chum all about it." The girl scrunched her eyes up tight, like a person who starts to jump and doesn't care where he lands. Twice her lips opened and shut without a sound. Then suddenly she braced herself with an intense effort. "Drew," she blurted out, "do you remember--three years ago--you asked me to--marry--you?" "Do I remember it?" gasped Drew. The edgy sharpness of his tone made the girl open her eyes and stare at him. "Yes," he acknowledged, "I remember it." The girl began to smooth her white skirts with excessive precision across her knees. "What made you--ask me?" she whispered. "What made me ask you?" cried the man. "What made me ask you? Why, I asked you because I love you." The girl bent forward anxiously as though she were deaf. "You asked me because--_what_?" she quizzed him. "Because I love you," he repeated. She jumped up suddenly and ran across the room to him. "Because you--love me?" she reiterated. "'Love?' Not 'loved'? Not past tense? Not all over and done with?" There was no mistaking her meaning. But the man's face did not kindle, except with pain. Almost roughly he put his hands on her shoulders and searched down deep into her eyes. "Ruth," he probed, "what are you trying to do to me? Open an old wound? You know I--love you."