“Och!  Sure, the blarney-stone is getting a good rub now,” I said playfully.

Annoyance and amusement struggled for mastery in his expression as he replied: 

“You’re the queerest girl in the world.  One minute you snub a person, the next you are the jolliest girl going, and then you get as grave and earnest as a fellow’s mother would be.”

“Yes, I am queer.  If you had any sense, you’d have nothing to do with me.  I’m more queer, too.  I am given to something which a man never pardons in a woman.  You will draw away as though I were a snake when you hear.”

“What is it?”

“I am given to writing stories, and literary people predict I will yet be an authoress.”

He laughed—­his soft, rich laugh.

“That’s just into my hand.  I’d rather work all day than write the shortest letter; so if you will give me a hand occasionally, you can write as many yarns as you like.  I’ll give you a study, and send for a truck-load of writing-gear at once, if you like.  Is that the only horror you had to tell me?”

I bowed my head.

“Well, I can have you now,” he said gently, folding me softly in his arms with such tender reverence that I cried out in pain, “Oh, Hal, don’t, don’t!” and struggled free.  I was ashamed, knowing I was not worthy of this.

He flushed a dusky red.

“Am I so hateful to you that you cannot bear my touch?” he asked half wistfully, half angrily.

“Oh no; it isn’t that.  I’m really very fond of you, if you’d only understand,” I said half to myself.

“Understand!  If you care for me, that is all I want to understand.  I love you, and have plenty of money.  There is nothing to keep us apart.  Now that I know you care for me, I will have you, in spite of the devil.”

“There will he a great tussle between you,” I said mischievously, laughing at him.  “Old Nick has a great hold on me, and I’m sure he will dispute your right.”

At any time Harold’s sense of humour was not at all in accordance with his size, and he failed to see how my remark applied now.

He gripped my hands in a passion of pleading, as two years previously he had seized me in jealous rage.  He drew me to him.  His eyes were dark and full of entreaty; his voice was husky.

“Syb, poor little Syb, I will be good to you!  You can have what you like.  You don’t know what you mean when you say no.”

No; I would not yield.  He offered me everything—­but control.  He was a man who meant all he said.  His were no idle promises on the spur of the moment.  But no, no, no, no, he was not for me.  My love must know, must have suffered, must understand.

“Syb, you do not answer.  May I call you mine?  You must, you must, you must!”

His hot breath was upon my cheek.  The pleasant, open, manly countenance was very near-perilously near.  The intoxication of his love was overpowering me.  I had no hesitation about trusting him.  He was not distasteful to me in any way.  What was the good of waiting for that other—­the man who had suffered, who knew, who understood?  I might never find him; and, if I did, ninety-nine chances to one he would not care for me.