of this world. You're not as old that way as I am."

"Well, what of it?"

"Nothing. You asked why I came to see you. That's why. Partly."

He relapsed into silence and stared at the water.

She looked at him. His handsome body, slowly broadening, was nearly full
grown. His face, because of its full, clear, big, inscrutable eyes, had
an expression which was almost babyish. She could not have guessed the
depths it veiled. His cheeks were pink, his hands not large, but sinewy
and strong. Her pale, uncertain, lymphatic body extracted a form of
dynamic energy from him even at this range.

"I don't think you ought to come to see me so often. People won't think
well of it." She ventured to take a distant, matronly air--the air she
had originally held toward him.

"People," he said, "don't worry about people. People think what you want
them to think. I wish you wouldn't take that distant air toward me."

"Why?"

"Because I like you."

"But you mustn't like me. It's wrong. I can't ever marry you. You're too
young. I'm too old."

"Don't say that!" he said, imperiously. "There's nothing to it. I want