"I've asked you to forgive me the first offense," she hurriedly denied his appeal. "And the second--Mr. O'Mara, last night Miriam said something to me, something that she wouldn't have said if she hadn't been half mad with fear. It was unkind, unfair, but it made me wonder if, perhaps, you might not be thinking the same thing, too. Years ago you told me I didn't think you good enough to--to be my knight. My outburst was only childish temper that day, but did you think last night that I still underrated you?" Steve finally shook his head when she persisted in waiting for his answer. "You just have to finish now," he warned her, however. "It was your own bargain. I'm not going to tell you one single bit of what I think of you until it comes my turn!" She tried to laugh at his stubbornness, but she had trouble with this explanation, which grew more vexingly intricate and involved the further she went. "Then we'll say you didn't," she continued. "I told you last night, less kindly than I might have, that I was engaged to Mr. Wickersham. And I've just confessed, too, that I didn't know a girl could care for any man as unutterably, as blindly and pridelessly, as Miriam cares for the man Garry is. That is the truth. For quite a long, long time it has been understood that I was to marry Mr. Wickersham. I have always admired him--found him above petty things. But, Mr. O'Mara, I have always been sure, for just as long a time, that the ability to care for anyone the--the way I think you believed last night I might care for you, was left out of me. And so it wasn't you who awoke my contempt, even though I did turn it against you. It was I, myself. It was I, and not you, who was not 'good enough'! For even if I am the kind of a girl who can't love anybody, very much, except, perhaps, herself, I should at least play fair. Isn't--isn't that so?" Minute after minute passed while she sat plaiting the cloth tight-stretched over one knee. Lips softly aquiver, she waited, earnest, eager that he understand from her explanation that which she did not yet understand at all herself. Again she wished that he would turn; she wanted greatly to see whatever there might be behind his heavy silence. "Isn't it?" she faltered timidly. And yet, when his head did come around she found she couldn't face him. "Is it my turn now?" he asked. Her answer was barely audible. "If--if you have to--have it. But I've told you how useless it is." "Would you mind looking at me, just a minute?" said Steve. The brown head drooped even lower over the restless fingers. It shook, ever so faintly. "I'd rather not. . . . I'm listening!" His laugh lilted recklessly in sheer joy at her refusal. "Then I'll have to tell you," he stated, "that I'm smiling in spite of the hopelessness. I'm smiling, even though my throat is aching and my lips pretty dry.