"That's not tragic. When you've no chance, _then_ that's tragic."

Sally, as swiftly as she had blushed, could change into that deadly
sweet mood. She did both now. She seemed warm, softened, agitated. How
could this be anything but sincere? I felt myself slipping; so I laughed
harshly.

"Chance! I've no chance on earth."

"Try!" she whispered.

But I caught myself in time. Then the shock of bitter renunciation made
it easy for me to simulate anger.

"You promised not to--not to--" I began, choking. My voice was hoarse
and it broke, matters surely far removed from pretense.

I had seen Sally Langdon in varying degrees of emotion, but never as she
appeared now. She was pale and she trembled a little. If it was not
fright, then I could not tell what it was. But there were contrition and
earnestness about her, too.

"Russ, I know. I promised not to--to tease--to tempt you anymore," she
faltered. "I've broken it. I'm ashamed. I haven't played the game
square. But I couldn't--I can't help myself. I've got sense enough not
to engage myself to you, but I can't keep from loving you. I can't let
you alone. There--if you want it on the square! What's more, I'll go on
as I have done unless you keep away from me. I don't care what I
deserve--what you do--I will--I will!"