[Footnote A:  Midsummer comes at the time of the summer solstice, about June 21st, but Midsummer Day, the Feast of St. John the Baptist, is the 24th of June.]

He stared at her.  “If you put it that way,” he began stiffly, “you certainly need not—­”

“But I didn’t put it that way.  I said I wished that you need not see me.  That is quite different from wishing I need not see you.  I don’t mind seeing you in the least—­”

“That’s good of you!”

“Don’t be angry.  I’m going to be quite frank with you—­”

“I’m prepared for that.  I can’t remember that you’ve ever been anything else.”

“Please listen to me, Mr. Kendrick.  When I say that I wish you would not see me—­”

“You said ‘need not.’”

“I shall have to put it ‘would not’ to make you understand.  When I say I wish you would not see me until Midsummer I am saying the very kindest thing I can.  Just now you are under the impression—­hallucination—­that you want to see much of me.  To prove that you are mistaken I’m going to ask this of you—­not to have anything whatever to do with me until at least Midsummer.  If you carry out my wish you will find out for yourself what I mean—­and will thank me for my wisdom.”

“It’s a wish, is it?  It sounds to me more like a decree.”

“It’s not a decree.  I’ll not refuse to see you if you come.  But if you will do as I ask I shall appreciate it more than I can tell you.”

“It is certainly one of the cleverest schemes of getting rid of a fellow I ever heard.  Hang it all! do you expect me not to understand that you are simply letting me down easy?  It’s not in reason to suppose that you’re forbidding all other men the house.  I beg your pardon; I know that’s none of my business; but it’s not in human nature to keep from saying it, because of course that’s bound to be the thing that cuts.  If you were going into a convent, and all other fellows were cooling their heels outside with me, I could stand it.”

“My dear Mr. Kendrick, you can stand it in any case.  You’re going to put all this out of mind and work at building up this business here in Eastman with Mr. Benson.  You will find it a much more interesting game than the old one of—­”

“Of what?  Running after every pretty girl?  For of course that’s what you think I’ve done.”

She did not answer that.  He said something under his breath, and his hands tightened on hers savagely.  They were rounding the last bend but one in the river, and the bonfire was close at hand.

“Can’t you understand,” he ground out, “that every other thought and feeling and experience I’ve ever had melts away before this?  You can put me under ban for a year if you like; but if at the end of that time you’re not married to another man you’ll find me at your elbow.  I told you I’d make you respect me; I’ll do more, I’ll make you listen to me.  And—­if I promise not to come where you have to look at me till Midsummer, till the twenty-fourth of June—­heaven knows why you pick out that day—­I’ll not promise not to make you think of me!”