"I know you love me a little," she returns, trying hard to speak lightly and calmly, "but I also know, dear Bruce, that your heart, it may be unconsciously to yourself, still retains too much of its old feeling for one I need not name, for you to love me as I should like to be loved. Understand that I am not blaming you for this, but you know in your heart, Bruce, that were she free, and would she listen to your suit, you would not look twice at poor me." Another home-thrust! He stands fire like a soldier, rallies, and meets her with another shot. "This from you, Lulu! I did not think it in you to twit me with loving another man's wife!" "I did not mean it that way," she answers, flushed and imploringly. "I meant--only meant to show you, Bruce, that I could not--oh! that I cared too much for you to be happy with you unless your love was strong and deep as mine." "I did not think you could be so jealous and exacting, child." "I am not jealous nor exacting. I am only true to my woman's nature," she answers, sweetly and firmly. "Nonsense!" he answers, brusquely, "let all that pass--I do love you, Brownie, not as I loved her, I own it. But you are so sweet and lovable that it will be easy for you to fill up my heart, to the exclusion of all other past love. Try it and see, dear. Promise me that you will give yourself to me." "I cannot." "Is that final?" "Final!" she gasped, as white as her dress, and leaning unwillingly against his shoulder. "Why, Brownie, child, dearest, look up--heavens! she is fainting," cried Bruce, and taking her in his arms, he ran into a little pavilion near by, and laying her down on the low, rustic bench within, opened the gold-stoppered bottle of salts that swung by a golden chain to her belt, and applied it to her nostrils. She struggled up to a sitting posture and drew a long breath, while tears rolled over her cheeks. Both lily white hands were uplifted to prevent another application of the pungent salts. "Don't please," she said, "you are taking away all the breath I have left." "You deserve some such punishment for your cruelty to me," he retorts, in a very good humor with himself and her, for he feels he has done his duty in his second love affair, and if she will not marry him, why that is her own affair, and he cheerfully swallows his chagrin, and also a spice of genuine regret as he smiles down at her. "I am going back, if you please." She steps out of the pavilion while speaking, and he attends her. As they walk silently on he gathers a flower here and there, the rarest that blow in the garden, and putting them together they grow into a graceful bouquet before they reach the house. Then he presents it with the kindest of smiles and quite ignoring the unkind cut she has given his vanity. She takes it, thanks him, and notes with quick eyes that no roses, no white ones at least, nor pansies are there--those flowers are sacred to memory, or, perchance, remorse.