“By Bob Hampton?”

“Yes.  Those were, I believe, his exact words.  Can you wonder that I hardly know how I stand in your sight?”

“I do not at all understand,” she faltered.  “Truly, Lieutenant Brant, I do not.  I feel that Mr. Hampton would not say that without a good and sufficient reason.  He is not a man to be swayed by prejudice; yet, whatever the reason may be, I know nothing about it.”

“But you do not answer my last query.”

“Perhaps I did not hear it.”

“It was, How do I stand in your sight?  That is of far more importance to me now than any unauthorized command from Mr. Hampton.”

She glanced up into his serious face shyly, with a little dimple of returning laughter.  “Indeed; but perhaps he might not care to have me say.  However, as I once informed you that you were very far from being my ideal, possibly it may now be my duty to qualify that harsh statement somewhat.”

“By confessing that I am your ideal?”

“Oh, indeed, no!  We never realize our ideals, you know, or else they would entirely cease to be ideals.  My confession is limited to a mere admission that I now consider you a very pleasant young man.”

“You offer me a stone when I cry unto you for bread,” he exclaimed.  “The world is filled with pleasant young men.  They are a drug on the market.  I beg some special distinction, some different classification in your eyes.”

“You are becoming quite hard to please,” her face turned partially away, her look meditative, “and—­and dictatorial; but I will try.  You are intelligent, a splendid dancer, fairly good-looking, rather bright at times, and, no doubt, would prove venturesome if not held strictly to your proper place.  Take it all in all, you are even interesting, and—­I admit—­I am inclined to like you.”

The tantalizing tone and manner nerved him; he grasped the white hand resting invitingly on the grass, and held it firmly within his own.  “You only make sport as you did once before.  I must have the whole truth.”

“Oh, no; to make sport at such a time would be sheerest mockery, and I would never dare to be so free.  Why, remember we are scarcely more than strangers.  How rude you are! only our third time of meeting, and you will not release my hand.”

“Not unless I must, Naida,” and the deep ringing soberness of his voice startled the girl into suddenly uplifting her eyes to his face.  What she read there instantly changed her mood from playfulness to earnest gravity.

“Oh, please do not—­do not say what you are tempted to,” her voice almost pleading.  “I cannot listen; truly I cannot; I must not.  It would make us both very unhappy, and you would be sure to regret such hasty words.”

“Regret!” and he yet clung to the hand which she scarcely endeavored to release, bending forward, hoping to read in her hidden eyes the secret her lips guarded.  “Am I, then, not old enough to know my own mind?”