account of yourself. I never knew a man of your name who didn't."

"Thank you, sir."

There was a long silence.

"Basil will hardly have time to get his commission, and get to Tampa."

"No. But he can come after us."

She turned suddenly upon him.

"Yes--something has happened to you. I didn't know what you meant that
day we drove home, but I do now. I feel it, but I don't understand."

Crittenden flushed, but made no answer.

"You could not have spoken to me in the old days as you do now. Your
instinct would have held you back. And something has happened to me."
Then she began talking to him as frankly and simply as a child to a
child. It was foolish and selfish, but it had hurt her when he told her
that he no longer had his old feeling for her. It was selfish and cruel,
but it was true, however selfish and cruel it seemed, and was--but she
had felt hurt. Perhaps that was vanity, which was not to her credit--but
that, too, she could not help. It had hurt her every time he had said
anything from which she could infer that her influence over him was less
than it once was--although, as a rule, she did not like to have
influence over people. Maybe he wounded her as his friend in this way,
and perhaps there was a little vanity in this, too--but a curious change
was taking place in their relations. Once he was always trying to please