"My God, Sidney, I'm asking you to marry me!"

"I--I know that. I am asking you something else, Max."

"I have never been in love with her."

His voice was sulky. He had drawn the car close to a bank, and they were
sitting in the shade, on the grass. It was the Sunday afternoon after
Sidney's experience in the operating-room.

"You took her out, Max, didn't you?"

"A few times, yes. She seemed to have no friends. I was sorry for her."

"That was all?"

"Absolutely. Good Heavens, you've put me through a catechism in the last
ten minutes!"

"If my father were living, or even mother, I--one of them would have done
this for me, Max. I'm sorry I had to. I've been very wretched for several
days."

It was the first encouragement she had given him. There was no coquetry
about her aloofness. It was only that her faith in him had had a shock and
was slow of reviving.

"You are very, very lovely, Sidney. I wonder if you have any idea what you
mean to me?"

"You meant a great deal to me, too," she said frankly, "until a few days
ago. I thought you were the greatest man I had ever known, and the best.
And then--I think I'd better tell you what I overheard. I didn't try to
hear. It just happened that way."