herself in his behalf, filled Vincent with gratitude. And as is so likely to happen between a man and a girl, the gratitude slipped swiftly and quietly into a more involving sentiment. Vincent, to his surprise, found himself wishing to abandon the play-acting. By the fourth day he had become as anxious to tear down the artificial structure between himself and Elizabeth Oliver, (by then he had found out what the E stood for) as a week ago he had been determined to build up walls and barriers, and shut himself away from human-beings. He wanted to lay bare his soul to this girl! And the decision to do so culminated suddenly, abruptly, on the hill-top, not five minutes after she had been expounding upon the volatile characteristics of girls from Mars.
"I want to talk to you," he said. He was standing a little behind Elizabeth, who was still seated upon the rock. She looked up at him over her shoulder. His gaze, she discovered, was fixed on far-away hills, and his jaw had a set, determined expression.
"Oh, no, you don't," she replied. "Men don't talk to soulless young pagans. They just prattle to them." She laughed elfishly.
Vincent went straight on as if she hadn't spoken. "Alice Farnum, of course, has told you," he said, "what an impossible boor I've been
