"I want nothing more. I am quite satisfied with that. You yourself seemed to wish to pile it up."
"Either you won't understand me," cried Richard, "or"—darting a vicious glance at her—"you can't!"
Miss Whittaker stopped and looked thought- fully into his face. "In our position if it becomes you to sacrifice reflection to feeling, it becomes me to do the reverse. Listen to me, Richard. I do understand you, and better, I believe, than you understand yourself."
"Oh, you think me a baby, I know!"
But she continued, heedless of his interruption. "I thought that, by leaving you to yourself awhile, your feelings might become clearer to you. But they seem to be growing only more confused. I have been so fortunate, or so unfortunate, I hardly know which,"—and she smiled faintly,—"as to make you like me. That's all very well, but you must not make too much of it. Nothing could make me happier than to be liked by you, or by any one else. But here it must stop with you, as it stops with others."
"It does not stop here with others."
"I beg your pardon. You have no right to say that. It is partly out of justice to others that I speak to you as I am doing. I shall always be one of your best friends, but I shall never be more. It is best I should tell you this at once. I might trifle with you awhile and make you happy (since upon such a poor thing you seem to set your happiness) by allowing
