“It is true,” she persisted, feeling somehow sorry, though she did not understand why she should feel so.  “I—­I—­well, you know I—­you remember what I told you that first day, don’t you?  About getting married, and falling in love, and such things.  It is true.  I don’t want to love anybody, and I don’t want to get married, and Fairy says—­it is—­remotely possible—­that you might get—­very fond of me.”

He smiled rather grimly.  “Yes, I think it is—­remotely possible.”

“Then that settles it,” she said comfortably.  “And besides, I have such a lot to do that I can’t—­well, bother—­spending so much time outside as I have with you.  I’ve been neglecting my work, and it isn’t right.  I haven’t the time.”

“Which is your way of saying that you do not like me, isn’t it?”

Prudence stood up impulsively.  “Oh, I like you, but—­” she threw out her hands expressively.  He took them in his, tenderly, firmly.

“But, Prudence,” he argued, “that is because the woman in you isn’t awake.  You may never love me—­a dismal possibility, but it is true.  But don’t you think it only fair that you should give me a chance to try?”

“Oh, but that’s just the point,” she cried.  “I do not want you to try.  I do not want to run any risk, at all.  I wouldn’t marry you if I did love you—­I told you that right in the beginning.”

He still held her hands in one of his, caressing them slowly with the other.  “What is there about me that you do not like?” he demanded suddenly.  “There is something, I know.”

And with her awful unbelievable honesty.  Prudence told him.  “Yes,” she said, “that is true.  I hated to mention it, but there is something!  Mr. Rayburn, I just can’t stand the bugs!”

“Good heavens!  The what?”

“The bugs!  I can’t bear for you to be near me, because I keep wondering if there are bugs and things in your pocket.  I’m afraid they’ll get over on me.  Even now it makes me shiver when you hold my hands, because I know you’ve been handling the horrible little creatures with yours.”  He dropped her hands abruptly, and stared at her.  “And after you leave, I get down on my hands and knees and look over the floor, and examine the chairs, to see if any have crawled off!  It’s a terrible feeling, Mr. Rayburn.  You know I told you I hated bugs.—­I’m afraid I’ve hurt your feelings,” she said sadly.

“Where in the world did you get such an idea as that?” he demanded rather angrily.  “Do you think I have pet bugs to carry around with me for company?”

“No,—­but don’t you remember the picnic,—­and how you kept gathering them up in your handkerchiefs and putting them in your pockets?  And how I kept squirming around to get on the other side,—­I was trying to get away from the bugs!”

“But, my heavens, Prudence, those were my field clothes.  I don’t put bugs in these pockets,—­these are my Sunday togs!” He smiled a little.  “And I always wash my hands, you know.”  He found it humorous, and yet it hurt him.  Such a little thing to prejudice a girl so strongly,—­and one he liked so marvelously well!