“No, Hal,” I promptly made answer.  I did not think you were that sort of fellow; but I thought that was the only sort of fellow there was.”

“Good heavens, Syb!  Did you really mean those queer little letters you wrote me last February?  I never for an instant looked upon them as anything but a little bit of playful contrariness.  And have you forgotten me?  Did you not mean your promise of two years ago, that you speak of what passed between us as a paltry bit of flirtation?  Is that all you thought it?”

“No, I did not consider it flirtation; but that is what I thought you would term it when announcing your affection for Gertie.”

“Gertie!  Pretty little Gertie!  I never looked upon the child as anything but your sister, consequently mine also.  She’s a child.”

“Child!  She is eighteen.  More than a year older than I was when you first introduced the subject of matrimony to me, and she is very beautiful, and twenty times as good and lovable as I could ever be even in my best moments.”

“Yes, I know you are young in years, but there is nothing of the child in you.  As for beauty, it is nothing.  If beauty was all a man required, he could, if rich, have a harem full of it any day.  I want some one to be true.”

“The world is filled with folly and sin,
And love must cling where it can, I say;
For beauty is easy enough to win,
But one isn’t loved every day,”

I quoted from Owen Meredith.

“Yes,” he said, “that is why I want you.  Just think a moment; don’t say no.  You are not vexed with me—­are you, Syb?”

“Vexed, Hal!  I am scarcely inhuman enough to be angry on account of being loved.”

Ah, why did I not love him as I have it in me to love!  Why did he look so exasperatingly humble?  I was weak, oh, so pitifully weak!  I wanted a man who would be masterful and strong, who would help me over the rough spots of life—­one who had done hard grinding in the mill of fate—­one who had suffered, who had understood.  No; I could never marry Harold Beecham.

“Well, Syb, little chum, what do you say?”

“Say!”—­and the words fell from me bitterly—­“I say, leave me; go and marry the sort of woman you ought to marry.  The sort that all men like.  A good conventional woman, who will do the things she should at the proper time.  Leave me alone.”

He was painfully agitated.  A look of pain crossed his face.

“Don’t say that, Syb, because I was a beastly cad once:  I’ve had all that knocked out of me.”

“I am the cad,” I replied.  “What I said was nasty and unwomanly, and I wish I had left it unsaid.  I am not good enough to be your wife, Hal, or that of any man.  Oh, Hal, I have never deceived you!  There are scores of good noble women in the world who would wed you for the asking—­marry one of them.”

“But, Syb, I want you.  You are the best and truest girl in the world.”