“My dear Dick!” Averil put her hands into his, but her gesture was one of restraint.  “You mustn’t talk so wildly,” she said.  “And, dear boy, do try not to be quite so impulsive—­so headstrong.  You know, you—­you—­”

She broke off.  Derrick, with a set jaw and burning eyes, was drawing her to him, strongly, irresistibly.

“Derrick!” she said, with a flash of anger.

“I can’t help it!” Derrick said passionately.  “I’ve been counting on this, living for this.  Averil I—­I—­you can call me mad if you like, but if you send me away again—­I believe I shall shoot myself.”

“What nonsense!” exclaimed Averil, half-angry, half-scornful.

He dropped her hands and stood quite still for the space of a few seconds, his face white and twitching.  And then, to her utter amazement, he sank heavily into a chair and covered his face with his hands.

“Dick!” she ejaculated.

Silence followed the word, a breathless silence.  Derrick sat perfectly motionless, his fingers gripping his hair.  At last Averil moved up to him, a little frightened by his stillness, and very intensely compassionate.  She bent and touched his shoulder.

“Dick!” she said.  “Dick!  Don’t!”

He stirred under her hand, but did not raise his head.  “Get away, Averil!” he muttered.  “You don’t understand.”

And quite suddenly Averil was transported back to the far, receding schooldays, when Derrick had got into trouble for smoking his first cigar.  The memory unconsciously influenced her speech.

“But, Dick,” she said persuasively, “don’t you think you are the least bit in the world unreasonable?  It’s true I don’t quite understand.  We’ve been such splendid chums all our lives, I really don’t see why we should begin to be anything different now.  Besides, Dick”—­there was appeal in her voice—­“I don’t truly want to get married.  It seems such a silly thing to go and do when one had such really jolly times without.  It does spoil things so.”

Derrick sat up.  He was still absurdly boyish, despite his four-and-twenty years.

“Look here, Averil!” he said doggedly.  “If you won’t have me, I’m not going to hang about after you like a tame monkey.  It’s going to be one thing or the other.  I’ve made a big enough fool of myself over you.  We can’t be chums, as you call it”—­a passionate ring crept into his voice—­“when all the while you’re holding me off at arm’s length as if I’d got the plague.  So”—­rising abruptly and facing her—­“which is it to be?”

Averil looked at him.  His face was still white, but his lips were sternly compressed.  He was weak no longer.  She was conscious of a sudden thrill of admiration banishing her pity.  After all, was he indeed only a boy?  He scarcely seemed so at that moment.  He was, moreover, straight and handsome despite his gaunt appearance.

“Answer me, Averil!” he said with determination.