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"I suppose we might call him a romanticist," said I, "might we not?"

I failed to catch her reply. She spoke in a tone of pain and sunk her face in her hand. "Head ache?" I asked. "No." She straightened, and from under her coquettish hat bent upon me such a look as I had never seen. In her eyes, in her tightened lips, and in the lift of her head, was a whole history of hope, pride, pain, resolve, strife, bafflement and defiance. She could not have chosen to betray so much; she must have counted too fully on the shade of her hat-brim. The beautiful frown relaxed into a smile. "No," she repeated, "only an aching conscience. Ever have one?"

"My God! she shall not!" I cried, and whirled about and galloped back.

"She has a fearful game to play."

She looked into her basket and fingered its flowers. "That's what he asked me to call him."

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