“I was telling you I hoped to make a try for it,” he explained a little querulously. “When my mother comes and hears about this she’ll send for my father probably and there’ll be a big fuss—more than you could have any idea of until you really hear it. But I never took to any girl as much as I’ve taken to you, never in my life.” Here his querulousness gave way to another feeling and his voice softened. “I’m ready to buck up to the whole crew of ’em for your sake, Lily. What about it?” She looked at him blankly. “I don’t know,” she said. “What?” he cried. “Don’t you understand? I’m asking you to _marry_ me!” “Yes,” she said. “I hear you say it; but so far as I’m concerned you might almost as well be telling me it’s a pleasant day! I’m not in the right state to think about it or even to understand it.” “Why not?” “Because,” she said, “I’m so angry I don’t know what I’m doing.” “Look here——” he began; but said no more, and, in spite of her preoccupation with her anger, she was able to perceive that he now had some of his own. She put her hand lightly upon his sleeve and, simultaneously, the car stopped at the hospital door. “Forgive me,” she said. “I’m afraid I’m terribly rude. But don’t you know there are times when you get so furious you just _can’t_ think about anything else?” “Can’t you?” he returned, coldly, as the chauffeur helped him down from the car. “I’m afraid I doubt if you’d _ever_ consider what I was saying as of enough importance to listen to.” “I’m so sorry,” Lily said; and in spite of herself she said it absently; so that nothing could have been plainer than that her mind was not even upon this apology, but altogether upon the offence she had received from Mr. Henry Burnett. A special attendant of the convalescent’s came from within the building and offered his arm. Young Mr. McArdle took it and gave a final glance at the flushed cheeks and fiery eyes of the lady who had already twice smitten him and thus smote him again. Something hot in his upper chest seemed to rise against this provincial and suburban young woman who was too busy being furious with a local nonentity to know what she was doing indeed! The affronted young man’s last word was to the chauffeur. “When you have taken Miss Dodge home I sha’n’t want you until day-after-to-morrow. I don’t care to drive every day.” Lily was borne away murmuring, “I’m sorry,” again, but what she thought was: “I could! I could wring Henry Burnett’s neck and sing for joy!” . . . When the long red car drew up before her father’s house, there was another machine standing at the curb, a small black thing of the hardiest variety and odiously familiar to Lily. She jumped out, and, shaking with rage and her desire to express it, fairly ran up the brick walk to her front door.