“Mr. Denham,” she said almost painfully, “you’ve made a dreadful mistake.”  Then she stopped and moistened her lips.  “I don’t know just what words you overheard, but the dramatic instructor was there that afternoon drilling Mr. Holloway and myself for the parts which we took in the charity play that week; after he went out we went over one of the scenes alone.  Perhaps you heard part of that.”  She stopped and almost choked.  “Mr. Holloway has never really made any love to me—­perhaps he never wanted to—­perhaps I’ve never wanted him to.”

Jack stared.  His misconception was so strongly intrenched in the forefront of his brain that he could not possibly dislodge it at once.

Mrs. Rosscott continued to dry the tears that continued to rise; she seemed terribly affected at finding herself to have been the cause (no matter how innocently) of this latest tale of wrack and ruin.

“Do you mean to say,” the young man said, at last, “that there was no truth in what I heard?  Don’t you expect to marry Holloway?”

“I never expect to marry anyone, but certainly not him,” she replied, trying to regain her composure.

“Honest?”

“Assuredly.”

It was as if an unseen orchestra had suddenly burst forth just near enough and just far enough away.  He came to the side of her chair and laid his hand upon its back.

“Then what have you been thinking of me lately?” he asked.

“Very sad thoughts,” she confessed—­hiding her face again.

“Did you care?”

“Yes, I cared.”

He stood beside her for a long time without speaking or moving.  Then he suddenly pulled a chair forward, and sat down close in front of her.

“Don’t cry,” he said, almost daring to be tender.  “There’s nothing to cry about now, you know.”

“I think there’s plenty for me to cry about,” she said, looking up through her long wet lashes.  “It is so terrible for me to be the one that is to blame.  Papa swears he’ll never forgive Bob, and your aunt—­”

“Lord love you!” he exclaimed; “don’t worry over me or my aunt.  I don’t.  I don’t mind anything, with Holloway staked in the ditch.  I can get along well enough now.”

He smiled—­actually smiled—­as he spoke.

“Oh, you mustn’t speak so,” she said, blushing; “indeed, you must not.”  And smiled, too, in spite of herself.

“Who’s going to stop me?” he said.  “You know that you can’t; I’m miles the biggest.”

She looked at him and tried to frown, but only blushed again instead.  He put out his hand and took hers into its clasp.

“I’m everlasting glad to shake college,” he declared gayly; “it never was my favorite alley.  I’ve made up my mind to go to work just as soon as I get these pastry strips off my head.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.  Anywhere.  I don’t care.”

“But you’ll come to my house when Bob comes next week, won’t you?” she asked suddenly.  “I can see now why you wouldn’t before, but—­but it’s different now.  Isn’t it?”