She looked upon the ground, and her expression wrenched his tender heart. In vain he told himself that he was an egotistical fool; that the girl was probably more than half faking, to work upon him; that the other half of the feeling in her expression was the flimsiest youthful infatuation, certain to disappear in a few days, a few weeks at most. There, before him, was the look of suffering. And when she lifted her eyes for an instant they said more touchingly than her voice could have said it: “Why don’t you strike and have done with me? I am helpless.” He got up, tossed his cigarette far into the lake. “This is too rotten!” he cried. “How in the devil did I ever get into such a mess?” She waited, meek, silent, pathetic. “I’ve about decided to go away--to go back to Paris,” said he. “Maybe we can cross together,” said she. “Mother and I are going soon. She wants me to go right away--there, or anywhere, wherever I wish.” He dropped to the bowlder again, a sense of helplessness weakening his backbone and his knees. Of what use to fly? This girl was free--had the means to travel wherever she chose, to stay as long as she liked. In his excitement he saw visions of himself being pursued round and round the earth--till his money gave out, and he, unable to fly farther, was overtaken and captured. He began to laugh--laugh until the tears rolled down his cheeks. “What is it?” asked she. “Tell me. I want to laugh.” “You are making me into an imbecile,” replied he. “I was laughing at myself. I’m glad I had that laugh. I think I can talk sensibly now--without making myself ridiculous.” Once more he put on a highly impressive, highly ominous air of sober resoluteness. He began: “A short time ago you did me the honor of telling me you were in love with me.” “Yes. Do you--do you think poorly of me for having been frank?” And the gray eyes looked innocent anxiety. “No, I don’t,” confessed he. “As a general proposition, I think I should have thought--well, queerly--of a girl who came out with such a startler on no especial provocation. But in this case the effect is puzzlingly different. Probably because I can’t in the least believe you.” “Oh, no--that’s not the reason,” cried she. “It was only right that I should speak first. You see, when the girl’s poor, and marrying her is going to put the man to great expense--it’d be--be--downright impertinent for her to say such a thing. It’d be as if she asked him to support her for life.” “Maybe so,” said he. “The money side of it didn’t occur to me. Naturally, you, who have much money, would think more about it than I, who have little.” “Would you be afraid to--to marry--a woman who had a lot more money than you?” “Not in the least,” declared he. “How ridiculous!” A chill of suspicion crept into her face.