“Yes,” she said, “you are. And if you say you are not, then you are a liar, and I don’t like liars.” Then something happened to Hugo Cypress; and, after all, he was thirty-four, and she only twenty. He glared down at Shirley St. George, and from his mouth issued reasonable and critical noises, as befitted a man of thirty-four who has offered his hand five times running to a slip of a girl of twenty. “Shirley,” he said, “listen to me. You are a very pretty young lady. I have so far been so shy with you that I have not been able to tell you how beautiful I think you are----” “Thank you, Hugo,” she said very softly. And she tempted him exceedingly, but he continued on his manly way, glaring at a point half-way between her right ear and her left shoulder. “Nor have I been able to tell you, Shirley, how I love you. That was because I was shy--but I have now finished with being shy. I adore you so frightfully, my dear, that I have made myself a carpet for you to walk on. And you have taken advantage of me, that’s what you’ve done. Carpets get frayed. You have treated me, Shirley, exactly as a heartless, meretricious woman of thirty might treat an infatuated soap-manufacturer. That is, perhaps, because you are used to men being in love with you, and know that they will love you all the more the worse you treat them. Perhaps you are right, Shirley. But I can’t bear it any more, and so I am now going to leave this building and your life....” And Hugo went towards the door with a firm step. “You’re not going, Hugo!” It was a cry. “I am indeed, Shirley. Good-bye. And God bless you.” “Oh, dear, every man says ‘God bless you!’” cried Shirley. “It is the most final and most bitter thing they can say, for they say it with a prayer to the devil in their hearts. Go away, Hugo Cypress. I hate you.” “That’s why I am saying good-bye, Shirley.” “But surely you can’t go without proposing to me for the sixth and last time!” And that was a cry. Hugo opened the door; and he smiled, in a sort of way. “I thought I couldn’t, Shirley--but I find I can.” “But you can’t, you simply can’t!” she cried. “Why, I came down to see you on the distinct understanding that you were going to propose to me for the sixth and last time and only _then_ going away for ever! Hugo, you can’t do one without the other--it’s not fair!” “Don’t worry, little Shirley. The day is yet young, and some one else is sure to propose to you in the course of it. You will observe, my dear, that I am being cynical, after the manner of all rejected young men.” “But, Hugo, I want _you_ to--for the sixth and last time, dear, just to see what I’ll say!” And she tempted him exceedingly with her sun-lit face. “That’s just it, Shirley. I know what you’ll say. Good-bye.”