"Poor boy—to care for me like that. Because I can't—"
"Now don't say you can't! Think it over." He had caught her hand and held it.
"No. Thinking would not change me. I don't care for you in that way."
"You love someone else!"
"I don't think I want to marry anyone. I expect I love my father too much."
"But that's not fair. He has had a woman's best love already. I—" his voice broke—"have no one to love me."
"Oh, but you will," she comforted, "for you are really very lovable."
"Then why don't you love me?"
"I do. But not in that way."
"Do you love Derek?"
She rose, and looked down at him angrily. "You know you have no right to ask that."
"You do love him then!"
"I love you both—as friends."
"If I thought"—his eyes flamed accusingly into hers—"if I thought you loved Derek, I'd throw myself into the lake."
"Ah, now you make me glad I do not love you—too well."
"Why?"
"Because you are acting in such a pettish, childish way."
"Pettish—childish—" he repeated, with a short, infuriated laugh. "Go on! I can bear it."
"You must see for yourself that we're not suited to each other. Why, we are quarrelling already."
"Only because you are so cruel."
"And you are so unreasonable. . . ."
Sgaith had followed her, and now began furiously to dig a hole between them, as they stood facing each other. Im-
