"But it does not," she said; "I have always loved you--dearly, dearly. . . . Not in that way. . . . I don't know how. . . . Must it be in _that_ way, Captain Selwyn? Can we not go on in the other way--that dear way which I--I have--almost spoiled? Must we be like other people--must sentiment turn it all to commonplace? . . . Listen to me; I do love you; it is perfectly easy and simple to say it. But it is not emotional, it is not sentimental. Can't you see that in little things--in my ways with you? I--if I were sentimental about you I would call you Ph--by your first name, I suppose. But I can't; I've tried to--and it's very, very hard--and makes me self-conscious. It is an effort, you see--and so would it be for me to think of you sentimentally. Oh, I couldn't! I couldn't!--you, so much of a man, so strong and generous and experienced and clever--so perfectly the embodiment of everything I care for in a man! I love you dearly; but--you saw! I could--could not bring myself to touch even your hair--even in pure mischief. . . . And--sentiment chills me; I--there are times when it would be unendurable--I could not use an endearing term--nor suffer a--a caress. . . . So you see--don't you? And won't you take me for what I am?--and as I am?--a girl--still young, devoted to you with all her soul--happy with you, believing implicitly in you, deeply, deeply sensible of your goodness and sweetness and loyalty to her. I am not a woman; I was a fool to say so. But you--you are so overwhelmingly a man that if it were in me to love--in that way--it would be you! . . . Do you understand me? Or have I lost a friend? Will you forgive my foolish boast? Can you still keep me first in your heart--as you are in mine? And pardon in me all that I am not? Can you do these things because I ask you?" "Yes," he said. CHAPTER IX A NOVICE Gerald came to Silverside two or three times during the early summer, arriving usually on Friday and remaining until the following Monday morning. All his youthful admiration and friendship for Selwyn had returned; that was plainly evident--and with it something less of callow self-sufficiency. He did not appear to be as cock-sure of himself and the world as he had been; there was less bumptiousness about him, less aggressive complacency. Somewhere and somehow somebody or something had come into collision with him; but who or what this had been he did not offer to confide in Selwyn; and the older man, dreading to disturb the existing accord between them, forbore to question him or invite, even indirectly, any confidence not offered.