"Are you still engaged in that pressing business?"

"Yes."

"For your success in that I have also prayed."

She was constant after all, he thought. Still he wondered if she could be sincere in her protestations, and at the same time remain true to Anderson. For he really believed that she had been deceived by his apparent infatuation.

"I suppose you know that Jim has been ensnared?" he asked suddenly.

"Jim? No.... I,----What has happened?"

She was genuinely surprised.

"He has enlisted in the regiment."

"Has he forsworn?"

"Not yet. But he has signed the papers of enlistment."

"I am sorry, very sorry." Then after a pause: "It was I who brought Anderson to Jim's house, you know."

"Yes. I know."

"But I must confess that I did not know the nature of his errand. I, myself, was seeking an advantage."

"No matter. It may eventually redound to our credit."

"I regret exceedingly of having been the occasion of Jim's misfortune."

Her eyes were cast down, her head bent forward as she walked in what one might characterize a meditative mood.

"I, too, am sorry. But there are others."

"Many?"

"That I do not know. Later I shall tell you."

"And why not now?"

"I cannot."

It was a troublesome situation in which the two found themselves. Here were two souls who loved each other greatly, yet without being able to arrive at a mutual understanding on the subject. They were separated by a filmy veil. The girl, naturally frank and unreserved, was intimidated by the restrained and melancholy mien of her companion. Yet she felt constrained to speak lest deception might be charged against her.

Stephen, troubled in his own mind over the supposed unfavorable condition of affairs, skeptical of the affections of his erstwhile confidante, felt, too, a like necessity to be open and explain all.

So they walked for a time, he thinking, and she waiting for him to speak.

"For two reasons I cannot tell you," he went on. "First, the nature of the work is so obscure and so incomplete that I could give you no logical nor concise account of what I am doing. As a matter of fact, I, myself, am still wandering in a sort of maze. The other reason is that I have taken the greatest care to say no word in any way derogatory to the character of Mr. Anderson."

"You wouldn't do that."

"That's just it. I should not want to be the cause of your forming an opinion one way or the other concerning him. I would much prefer you to discover and to decide for yourself."

"That is charity."

"Perhaps!"

"And tact."

She peeped at him, her lips parted in a merry smile. Evidently she was in a flippant mood.

"It would be most unfair to him were I to establish a prejudice in your mind against him."

"Yet you have already disapproved of my friendship with him."

"I have, as I already have told you."

"Yet you have never told me the reason," she reminded him.

"I cannot."

He shook his head.

For he would not wound her feelings for the world; and still it pained him to be compelled to leave her in a state bordering on perplexity, not to say bewilderment, as a result of his strange silence. A delicate subject requires a deft hand, and he sensed only too keenly his impotency in this respect. He, therefore, thought it best to avoid as much as possible any attempts at explanation, at least for the present.

Furthermore, he was entirely ignorant of her opinion of Anderson. Of course, he would have given worlds to know this. But there seemed no reasonable hope that that craving would be satisfied. He was persuaded that the man had made a most favorable impression upon her, and if that were true, he knew that it were fruitless to continue further, for impressions once made are not easily obliterated. Poor girl! he thought.

She had seen only his best side; just that amount of good in a bad man that makes him dangerous,--just that amount of interest which often makes the cleverest person of a dullard.

Hence she was still an enigma. As far as he was concerned, however, there had been little or no variation in his attachment to her. She was ever the same interesting, lovely, tender, n.o.ble being; complete in her own virtues, indispensable to his own happiness. Perhaps he had been mistaken in his a.n.a.lysis of her; but no,--very likely she did care for the other man, or at any rate was beginning to find herself in that unfortunate state--fortunate, indeed, for Anderson, but unfortunate for him.

For this reason, more than for any other, he had desisted from saying anything that might have lessened Anderson in her regard. It would be most unfair to interfere with her freedom of choice. When the facts of the case were revealed in all their fullness, he felt certain that she would repent of her infatuation, if he might be permitted to so term her condition. It seemed best to him to await developments before further pressing his suit.

"Stephen," she said at length. "What are you thinking of me?"

"I--Why?--That is a sudden question. Do you mean complimentary or critical?"

"I mean this. Have you misjudged my relations with John Anderson?"

"I have thought in my mind----" he began, and stopped.

Marjorie started. The voice was quiet enough but significant in tone.

"Please tell me," she pleaded. "I must know."

"Well, I have thought that you have been unusually attentive to him."

"Yes."

"And that, perhaps, you do care for him,--just a little."