“And I’m a baby who can’t,” he said angrily.  After a pause he burst out abruptly:  “Miss Trotter, will you answer me one question?”

“Go on,” she said smilingly.

“Did you know—­that—­woman was engaged to Bilson when I spoke to you in the wood?”

“No!” she answered quickly, but without the sharp resentment she had shown at his brother’s suggestion.  “I only knew it when Mr. Bilson told me the same evening.”

“And I only knew it when news came of their marriage,” he said bitterly.

“But you must have suspected something when you saw them together in the wood,” she responded.

“When I saw them together in the wood?” he repeated dazedly.

Miss Trotter was startled, and stopped short.  Was it possible he had not seen them together?  She was shocked that she had spoken; but it was too late to withdraw her words.  “Yes,” she went on hurriedly, “I thought that was why you came back to say that I was not to speak to her.”

He looked at her fixedly, and said slowly:  “You thought that?  Well, listen to me.  I saw no one!  I knew nothing of this!  I suspected nothing!  I returned before I had reached the wood—­because—­because—­I had changed my mind!”

“Changed your mind!” she repeated wonderingly.

“Yes!  Changed my mind!  I couldn’t stand it any longer!  I did not love the girl—­I never loved her—­I was sick of my folly.  Sick of deceiving you and myself any longer.  Now you know why I didn’t go into the wood, and why I didn’t care where she was nor who was with her!”

“I don’t understand,” she said, lifting her clear eyes to his coldly.

“Of course you don’t,” he said bitterly.  “I didn’t understand myself!  And when you do understand you will hate and despise me—­if you do not laugh at me for a conceited fool!  Hear me out, Miss Trotter, for I am speaking the truth to you now, if I never spoke it before.  I never asked the girl to marry me!  I never said to her half what I told to you, and when I asked you to intercede with her, I never wanted you to do it—­and never expected you would.”

“May I ask why you did it then?” said Miss Trotter, with an acerbity which she put on to hide a vague, tantalizing consciousness.

“You would not believe me if I told you, and you would hate me if you did.”  He stopped, and, locking his fingers together, threw his hands over the back of the sofa and leaned toward her.  “You never liked me, Miss Trotter,” he said more quietly; “not from the first!  From the day that I was brought to the hotel, when you came to see me, I could see that you looked upon me as a foolish, petted boy.  When I tried to catch your eye, you looked at the doctor, and took your speech from him.  And yet I thought I had never seen a woman so great and perfect as you were, and whose sympathy I longed so much to have.  You may not believe me, but I thought you were a queen, for you were the first lady I had ever seen, and you were so different from the other girls I knew, or the women who had been kind to me.  You may laugh, but it’s the truth I’m telling you, Miss Trotter!”