Her tone was full of passionate yearning.  He laughed, trying to appear at ease.  Some sort of an understanding must be had with Diana sooner or later, and she might as well realize at this present interview that the old relations could not be restored.  His nature was not brutal and he disliked to hurt her; moreover, the boy had an uneasy feeling that he had been a far more ardent admirer of this peculiar girl than any fellow should be who had had no serious intentions; yet it would be folly to allow Diana to think she could win him back to his former allegiance.  No compromising word had ever left his lips; he had never spoken of love to her.  Yet the girl’s attitude seemed to infer a certain possession of him which was far from agreeable.

Having gone so far, he should have said more; but here again his lack of moral courage proved his stumbling-block, and he weakly evaded a frank expression of his true feelings.  “Life,” he began somewhat haltingly, to break the embarrassing pause, “is only serious when we make it so; and as soon as we make it serious it makes us unhappy.  So I’ve adopted one invariable rule:  to laugh and be gay.”

“Then I too will be gay, and together we’ll enjoy life,” responded Diana, with an effort to speak lightly.  “I shall let your moods be my moods, Arthur, as a good friend should.  Are we not affinities?”

Again he knew not what to say.  Her persistence in clinging to her intangible hold upon him was extremely irritating, and he realized the girl was far too clever for him to cope with and was liable to cause him future trouble.  Instead of seizing the opportunity to frankly undeceive her he foolishly evaded the subject.

“You’ve been tempting fate to-night,” he remarked with assumed carelessness.  “Don’t you remember that to stand four girls in a row is a bad omen?”

“Only for the one who first winks.  Isn’t that the way the saying goes?  I seldom wink, myself,” she continued, smilingly.  “But I have no faith in ill omens.  Their power is entirely due to mental fear.”

“I think not,” said Arthur, glad the conversation had taken this turn.  “Once I knew a fellow with thirteen letters in his name.  He had no mental fear.  But he proposed to a girl—­and was accepted.”

She gave him one of those sudden, swift glances that were so disconcerting.

“If you had a middle initial, there would be thirteen letters in your own name, Arthur Weldon.”

“But I haven’t, Diana; I haven’t,” he protested, eagerly.  “And if ever I propose to a girl I’m sure she’ll refuse me.  But I’ve no intention of doing such a crazy thing, so I’m perfectly safe.”

“You cannot be sure until you try, Arthur,” she replied pointedly, and with a start he became conscious that he was again treading upon dangerous ground.

“Come; let us rejoin your guests,” said he, offering her his arm.  “They would all hate me if they knew I was keeping the fair Diana from them so long.”  “Arthur, I must have a good long; talk with you—­one of our old, delightful confabs,” she said, earnestly.  “Will you call Sunday afternoon?  Then we shall be quite undisturbed.”