“Oh, Robin, please ...” Mary Trevert stood up and remained standing, her head turned a little away from him, a charming silhouette in her heather-blue shooting-suit. The young man took her listless hand. “My dear,” he said, “you and I have been pals all our lives. It was only at the front that I began to realize just how much you meant to me. And now I know I can’t do without you. I’ve never met any one who has been to me just what you are. And, Mary, I must have you as my wife ...” The girl remained motionless. She kept her face averted. The room seemed very still. “Oh, Robin, please ...” she murmured again. Resolutely the young man put an arm about her and drew her to him. Slowly, reluctantly, she let him have his way. But she would not look at him. “Oh, my dear,” he whispered, kissing her hair, “don’t you care a little?” She remained silent. “Won’t you look at me, Mary?” There was a hint of huskiness in his voice. He raised her face to his. “I saw in your eyes just now that you cared for me,” he whispered; “oh, my Mary, say that you do!” Then he bent down and kissed her. For a brief instant their lips met and he felt the caress of the girl’s arm about his neck. “Oh, Robin!” she said. That was all. But then she drew away. Reluctantly the man let her go. The colour had faded from his cheeks when she looked at him again as he stood facing her in the twilight of the billiard-room. “Robin, dear,” she said, “I’m going to hurt you.” The young man seemed to have had a premonition of what was coming, for he betrayed no sign of surprise, but remained motionless, very erect, very pale. “Dear,” said the girl with a little despairing shrug, “it’s hopeless! We can’t afford to marry!” “Not yet, I know,” said Robin, “but I’m getting on well, Mary, and in another year or two ...” The girl looked down at the point of her little brogue shoe. “I don’t know what you will think of me,” she said, “but I can’t accept ... I can’t face ... I ...” “You can’t face the idea of being the wife of a man who has his way to make. Is that it?” The voice was rather stern. The girl looked up impulsively. “I can’t, Robin. I should never make you happy. Mother and I are as poor as church-mice. All the money in the family goes to keep Horace in the Army and pay for my clothes.” She looked disdainfully at her pretty suit. “All this,” she went on with a little hopeless gesture indicating her tailor-made, “is Mother’s investment. No, no, it’s true ... I can tell you as a friend, Robin, dear, we are living on our capital until I have caught a rich husband ...” “Oh, my dear,” said Robin softly, “don’t say things like that ...” The girl laughed a little defiantly. “But it’s true,” she answered. “The war has halved Mother’s income and there’s nothing between us and bankruptcy but a year or so ... unless I get married!” Her voice trembled a little and she turned away. “Mary,” said the young man hoarsely, “for God’s sake, don’t do that!”