Nothing else—­nothing more than that, and the eternal indefinable charity for all boys which is inherent in all womanhood—­the consciousness of the enchantment that a boy has for all women. ...  Nothing more. ...  Except that—­perhaps she had wondered whether he liked her—­as much as she liked him....  Or if, possibly, in his regard for her there were some slight depths between shallows—­a gratitude that is a trifle warmer than the conventional virtue—­

When at length she ventured to turn her head and look at him he seemed to be asleep, lying there in the transformed shadow of the lawn umbrella.

Something about the motionless relaxation of this man annoyed her.  “Kay?”

He turned his head squarely toward her, and ’o her exasperation she blushed.

“Did I wake you?  I’m sorry,” she said coldly.

“You didn’t.  I was awake.”

“Oh!  I meant to say that I think I’ll stroll out.  Don’t come if you feel lazy.”

He swung himself up to a sitting posture.

“I’m quite ready,” he said. ...  “You’ll always find me ready, Yellow-hair—­always waiting.”

“Waiting?  For what?”

“For your commands.”

“You very nice boy!” she said gaily, springing to her feet.  Then, the subtle demon of the sunlight prompting her:  “You know, Kay, you don’t ever have to wait.  Because I’m always ready to listen to any pro—­any suggestions—­from you.”

The man looked into the girl’s eyes: 

“You would care to hear what I might have to tell you?”

“I always care to hear what you say.  Whatever you say interests me.”

“Would it interest you to know I am—­in love?”

“Yes. ...  With wh—­whom are—­” But her breath failed her.

“With you. ...  You knew it, Yellow-hair. ...  Does it interest you to know it?”

“Yes.”  But the exhilaration of the moment was interfering with her breath again and she only stood there with the flushed and audacious little smile stamped on her lips forcing her eyes to meet his curious, troubled, intent gaze.

“You did know it?” he repeated.

“No.”

“You suspected it.”

“I wanted to know what you—­thought about me, Kay.”

“You know now.”

“Yes ... but it doesn’t seem real. ...  And I haven’t anything to say to you.  I’m sorry—­”

“I understand, Yellow-hair.”

“—­Except-thank you.  And-and I am interested. ...  You’re such a boy....  I like you so much, Kay....  And I am interested in what you said to me.”

“That means a lot for you to say, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know. ...  It’s partly what we have been through together, I suppose; partly this lovely country, and the sun.  Something is enchanting me. ...  And you are very nice to look at, Kay.”  His smile was grave, a little detached and weary.

“I did not suppose you could ever really care for such a man as I am,” he remarked without the slightest bitterness or appeal in his voice.  “But I’m glad you let me tell you how it is with me. ...  It always was that way, Yellow-hair, from the first moment you came into the hospital.  I fell in love then.”