you to suppose that I care for you in another way; but the end would soon come, and then where should we be? You may, in your disappointment, call me heartless now—I freely give you leave to call me anything that will ease your mind—but what would you call me then? Friendship, Richard, is an excellent cure for love. Here is mine." And she held out her hand.
"No, I thank you," said Richard, gloomily folding his arms. "I know my own feelings," and he raised his voice. "Haven't I lived with them night and day for weeks and weeks? Great heaven, Gertrude Whittaker, this is no fancy! I'm not one of that sort. My whole life has gone into my love. God has let me idle it away hitherto only that I might begin it with you. Dear Gertrude, hear me! I have some, at least, of the faculties of a man. I know I'm not respectable, but I honestly believe I should repay any one who would bear with me. It's true I have neither worked, nor persisted, nor studied, nor earned a cent. But, on the other hand, I have never cared for any woman before. I have waited for you. And now—now, after all, I am to sit down to simple liking—to friendship! The devil! Be friends with men whom you don't make mad! You do me!"
An honest flush rose to Gertrude's cheek. "So much the worse for you!" she cried, with a bitter laugh. "So much the worse for both of us! But what is your contention? Do you wish to marry me?"
Richard flinched a moment under this tacit pro-
