awkwardly--he hardly knew why, unless because this seemed the very irony
of detachment. But she went on in her way: "You know, I suppose, that a
great disappointment always implies a great confidence--a great hope."

"I've certainly hoped," he said, "hoped strongly; but doubtless never
rationally enough to have a right to bemoan my disappointment."

There was something troubled in her face that seemed all the while to
burn clearer. "You do yourself injustice. I've such confidence in your
fairness of mind that I should be greatly disappointed if I were to find
it wanting."

"I really almost believe you're amusing yourself at my expense," the
young man cried. "My fairness of mind? Of all the question-begging
terms!" he laughed. "The only thing for one's mind to be fair to is the
thing one FEELS!"

She rose to her feet and looked at him hard. His eyes by this time were
accustomed to the imperfect light, and he could see that if she was
urgent she was yet beseechingly kind. She shook her head impatiently and
came near enough to lay her fan on his arm with a strong pressure. "If
that were so it would be a weary world. I know enough, however, of your
probable attitude. You needn't try to express it. It's enough that your
sincerity gives me the right to ask a favour of you--to make an intense,
a solemn request."

"Make it; I listen."

"DON'T DISAPPOINT ME. If you don't understand me now you will to-morrow
or very soon. When I said just now that I had a high opinion of you, you