“Not exactly that.”

“Insignificant then.”

“Isn’t she?”

“Yes—­in a way,” said Josephine, the condescending note in her voice again—­and in his mind Miss Hallowell’s clever burlesque of that note.  “But, in another way—­Men are different from women.  Now I—­a woman of my sort—­couldn’t stoop to a man of her class.  But men seem not to feel that way.”

“No,” said he, irritated.  “They’ve the courage to take what they want wherever they find it.  A man will take gold out of the dirt, because gold is always gold.  But a woman waits until she can get it at a fashionable jeweler’s, and makes sure it’s made up in a fashionable way.  I don’t like to hear you say those things.”

Her eyes flashed.  “Then you do like that Hallowell girl!” she cried—­and never before had her voice jarred upon him.

“That Hallowell girl has nothing to do with this,” he rejoined.  “I like to feel that you really love me—­that you’d have taken me wherever you happened to find me—­and that you’d stick to me no matter how far I might drop.”

“I would!  I would!” she cried, tears in her eyes.  “Oh, I didn’t mean that, Fred. You know I didn’t—­don’t you?”

She tried to put her arms round his neck, but he took her hands and held them.  “Would you like to think I was marrying you for what you have?—­or for any other reason whatever but for what you are?”

It being once more a question of her own sex, the obstinate line appeared round her mouth.  “But, Fred, I’d not be me, if I were—­a working girl,” she replied.

“You might be something even better if you were,” retorted he coldly.  “The only qualities I don’t like about you are the surface qualities that have been plated on in these surroundings.  And if I thought it was anything but just you that I was marrying, I’d lose no time about leaving you.  I’d not let myself degrade myself.”

“Fred—­that tone—­and don’t—­please don’t look at me like that!” she begged.

[Illustration:  “’Would you like to think I was marrying you for what you have?—­or for any other reason whatever but for what you are?’”]

But his powerful glance searched on.  He said, “Is it possible that you and I are deceiving ourselves—­and that we’ll marry and wake up—­and be bored and dissatisfied—­like so many of our friends?”

“No—­no,” she cried, wildly agitated.  “Fred, dear we love each other.  You know we do.  I don’t use words as well as you do—­and my mind works in a queer way—­Perhaps I didn’t mean what I said.  No matter.  If my love were put to the test—­Fred, I don’t ask anything more than that your love for me would stand the tests my love for you would stand.”

He caught her in his arms and kissed her with more passion than he had ever felt for her before.  “I believe you, Jo,” he said.  “I believe you.”