“I remember Mr. Doddridge saying in Bible class that it was supposed to be on the Euphrates,” she replied.  “But it’s been destroyed by the flood.”

“Let’s make another—­one of our own,” I suggested.

“Why, how silly you are this afternoon.”

“What’s to prevent us—­Maude?” I demanded, with a dry throat.

“Nonsense!” she laughed.  In proportion as I lost poise she seemed to gain it.

“It’s not nonsense,” I faltered.  “If we were married.”

At last the fateful words were pronounced—­irrevocably.  And, instead of qualms, I felt nothing but relief, joy that I had been swept along by the flood of feeling.  She did not look at me, but gazed straight ahead of her.

“If I love you, Maude?” I stammered, after a moment.

“But I don’t love you,” she replied, steadily.

Never in my life had I been so utterly taken aback.

“Do you mean,” I managed to say, “that after all these months you don’t like me a little?”

“‘Liking’ isn’t loving.”  She looked me full in the face.  “I like you very much.”

“But—­” there I stopped, paralyzed by what appeared to me the quintessence of feminine inconsistency and caprice.  Yet, as I stared at her, she certainly did not appear capricious.  It is not too much to say that I was fairly astounded at this evidence of self-command and decision, of the strength of mind to refuse me.  Was it possible that she had felt nothing and I all?  I got to my feet.

“I hate to hurt your feelings,” I heard her say.  “I’m very sorry."...  She looked up at me.  Afterwards, when reflecting on the scene, I seemed to remember that there were tears in her eyes.  I was not in a condition to appreciate her splendid sincerity.  I was overwhelmed and inarticulate.  I left her there, on the bench, and went back to George’s, announcing my intention of taking the five o’clock train....

Maude Hutchins had become, at a stroke, the most desirable of women.  I have often wondered how I should have felt on that five-hour journey back to the city if she had fallen into my arms!  I should have persuaded myself, no doubt, that I had not done a foolish thing in yielding to an impulse and proposing to an inexperienced and provincial young woman, yet there would have been regrets in the background.  Too deeply chagrined to see any humour in the situation, I settled down in a Pullman seat and went over and over again the event of that afternoon until the train reached the city.

As the days wore on, and I attended to my cases, I thought of Maude a great deal, and in those moments when the pressure of business was relaxed, she obsessed me.  She must love me,—­only she did not realize it.  That was the secret!  Her value had risen amazingly, become supreme; the very act of refusing me had emphasized her qualifications as a wife, and I now desired her with all the intensity of a nature which had been permitted always to achieve