since she was as young as that. Every year I've loved her more,
and found new things in her to care for; now I love her more
than any other man ever loved any other woman."

Miss Cavendish shook her head sympathetically.

"Yes, I know," she said; "that's the way Reggie loves me, too."

Carroll went on as though he had not heard her.

"There's a bench in St. James's Park," he said, "where we used to
sit when she first came here, when she didn't know so many
people. We used to go there in the morning and throw penny buns
to the ducks. That's been my amusement this summer since you've
all been away--sitting on that bench, feeding penny buns to the
silly ducks--especially the black one, the one she used to like
best. And I make pilgrimages to all the other places we ever
visited together, and try to pretend she is with me. And I
support the crossing sweeper at Lansdowne Passage because she
once said she felt sorry for him. I do all the other absurd
things that a man in love tortures himself by doing. But to what
end? She knows how I care, and yet she won't see why we
can't go on being friends as we once were. What's the use of it
all? "

"She is young, I tell you," repeated Miss Cavendish, "and she's
too sure of you. You've told her you care; now try making her
think you don't care."

Carroll shook his head impatiently.