fonder of Jack than of anybody. That's the reason we never write each other, except to borrow things. I am afraid that when I was a young cub in France I was not an attractive personality."
"On the contrary," said Daisy, smiling, "I thought you were very big and very perfect. I had illusions. I wept often when I went home and remembered that you never took the trouble to speak to me but once."
"I was a cub," I said; "not selfish and brutal, but I didn't understand schoolgirls. I never had any sisters, and I didn't know what to say to very young girls. If I had imagined that you felt hurt"
"Oh, I did—five years ago. Afterward I laughed at the whole thing."
"Laughed?" I repeated, vaguely disappointed.
"Why, of course. I was very easily hurt when I was a child. I think I have outgrown it."
The soft curve of her sensitive mouth contradicted her.
"Will you forgive me now?" I asked.
"Yes. I had forgotten the whole thing until I met you an hour or so ago."
There was something that had a ring not entirely genuine in this speech. I noticed it, but forgot it the next moment.
"Tiger cubs have stripes," said I. "Sel-
