Gifford's manner, as he spoke, told Helen what she had only surmised
before, and she was betrayed into an involuntary expression of sympathy.

"Oh," cried the young man, with an impatient gesture and a sudden flush
tingling across his face, "you misunderstand me. I haven't come to whine
about myself, or anything like that. I'm not jealous; for Heaven's sake,
don't think I am such a cur as to be jealous! If that man was worthy of
Lois, I--why, I'd be the first one to rejoice that she was happy. I want
Lois to be happy, from my soul! I hope you believe me, Helen?"

"I believe anything you tell me," she answered gently, "but I don't quite
understand how you feel about Mr. Forsythe; every one speaks so highly of
him. Even aunt Deely has only pleasant things to say of 'young Forsythe,'
as she calls him."

Gifford left his chair, and began to walk about the room, his hands
grasping the lapels of his coat, and his head thrown back in a troubled
sort of impatience. "That's just it," he said; "in this very letter aunt
Ruth is enthusiastic, and I can't tell you anything tangible against him,
only I don't like him, Helen. He's a puppy,--that's the amount of it. And
I thought--I just thought--I'd come and ask you if you supposed--if
you--of course I've no business to ask any question--but if you
thought"--

But Helen had understood his vague inquiry, "I should think," she said
"you would know that if he is what you call a _puppy_ Lois couldn't care
for him."

Gifford sat down, and took her ball of wool, beginning nervously to
unwind it, and then wind it up again.