“Oh, I don’t know what to think,” he commented, morosely. “I certainly don’t want to quarrel with you, Stephanie, for telling me the truth. Please don’t deceive me. You are a remarkable girl. I can do so much for you if you will let me. You ought to see that.” “But I’m not deceiving you,” she repeated, wearily. “I should think you could see.” “I believe you,” he went on, trying to deceive himself against his better judgment. “But you lead such a free, unconventional life.” “Ah,” thought Stephanie, “perhaps I talk too much.” “I am very fond of you. You appeal to me so much. I love you, really. Don’t deceive me. Don’t run with all these silly simpletons. They are really not worthy of you. I shall be able to get a divorce one of these days, and then I would be glad to marry you.” “But I’m not running with them in the sense that you think. They’re not anything to me beyond mere entertainment. Oh, I like them, of course. Lane Cross is a dear in his way, and so is Gardner Knowles. They have all been nice to me.” Cowperwood’s gorge rose at her calling Lane Cross dear. It incensed him, and yet he held his peace. “Do give me your word that there will never be anything between you and any of these men so long as you are friendly with me?” he almost pleaded—a strange role for him. “I don’t care to share you with any one else. I won’t. I don’t mind what you have done in the past, but I don’t want you to be unfaithful in the future.” “What a question! Of course I won’t. But if you don’t believe me—oh, dear—” Stephanie sighed painfully, and Cowperwood’s face clouded with angry though well-concealed suspicion and jealousy. “Well, I’ll tell you, Stephanie, I believe you now. I’m going to take your word. But if you do deceive me, and I should find it out, I will quit you the same day. I do not care to share you with any one else. What I can’t understand, if you care for me, is how you can take so much interest in all these affairs? It certainly isn’t devotion to your art that’s impelling you, is it?” “Oh, are you going to go on quarreling with me?” asked Stephanie, naively. “Won’t you believe me when I say that I love you? Perhaps—” But here her histrionic ability came to her aid, and she sobbed violently. Cowperwood took her in his arms. “Never mind,” he soothed. “I do believe you. I do think you care for me. Only I wish you weren’t such a butterfly temperament, Stephanie.” So this particular lesion for the time being was healed. CHAPTER XXVIII. The Exposure of Stephanie