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“You promised,” said the girl, “you would not come to see me.”

Lathrop, straddling his bicycle, peered anxiously down the road.

“This is not a social call,” he said. “I’m on duty. Have you seen the Reds?”

His tone was brisk and alert, his manner pre-occupied. The ungraciousness of his reception did not seem in the least to disconcert him.

But Miss Farrar was not deceived. She knew him, not only as a persistent and irrepressible lover, but as one full of guile, adroit in tricks, fertile in expedients. He was one who could not take “No” for an answer–at least not from her. When she repulsed him she seemed to grow in his eyes only the more attractive.

“It is not the lover who comes to woo,” he was constantly explaining, “but the lover’s way of wooing.”

Miss Farrar had assured him she did not like his way. She objected to being regarded and treated as a castle that could be taken only by assault. Whether she wished time to consider, or whether he and his proposal were really obnoxious to her, he could not find out. His policy of campaign was that she, also, should not have time to find out. Again and again she had agreed to see him only on the condition that he would not make love to her. He had promised again and again, and had failed to keep that promise. Only a week before he had been banished from her presence, to remain an exile until she gave him permission to see her at her home in New York. It was not her purpose to return there for two weeks, and yet here he was, a beggar at her gate. It might be that he was there, as he said, “on duty,” but her knowledge of him and of the doctrine of chances caused her to doubt it.

“Mr. Lathrop!” she began, severely.

As though to see to whom she had spoken Lathrop glanced anxiously over his shoulder. Apparently pained and surprised to find that it was to him she had addressed herself, he regarded her with deep reproach. His eyes were very beautiful. It was a fact which had often caused Miss Farrar extreme annoyance.

He shook his head sadly.

“‘Mr. Lathrop?'” he protested. “You know that to you I am always ‘Charles–Charles the Bold,’ because I am bold to love you; but never ‘Mr. Lathrop,’ unless,” he went on briskly, “you are referring to a future state, when, as Mrs. Lathrop, you will make me–“

Miss Farrar had turned her back on him, and was walking rapidly up the path.

“Beatrice,” he called. “I am coming after you!”

Miss Farrar instantly returned and placed both hands firmly upon the gate.

“I cannot understand you!” she said. “Don’t you see that when you act as you do now, I can’t even respect you? How do you think I could ever care, when you offend me so? You jest at what you pretend is the most serious thing in your life. You play with it–laugh at it!”

The young man interrupted her sharply.

“It’s like this,” he said. “When I am with you I am so happy I can’t be serious. When I am not with you, it is so serious that I am utterly and completely wretched. You say my love offends you, bores you! I am sorry, but what, in heaven’s name, do you think your not loving me is doing to me? I am a wreck! I am a skeleton! Look at me!”

He let his bicycle fall, and stood with his hands open at his sides, as though inviting her to gaze upon the ruin she had caused.

Four days of sun and rain, astride of a bicycle, without food or sleep, had drawn his face into fine, hard lines, had bronzed it with a healthy tan. His uniform, made by the same tailor that fitted him with polo breeches, clung to him like a jersey. The spectacle he presented was that of an extremely picturesque, handsome, manly youth, and of that fact no one was better aware than himself.