"That is your sole reason for asking this of me?" she insisted, eyeing him steadily.

"That I wish you to believe in me—yes."

"Why?" she pursued, inexorable.

"Because … I've already told you."

"That you want someone's good opinion to cherish. … But why, of all people, me—whom you hardly know, of whom what little you do know is hardly reassuring?"

He coloured, and boggled his answer. … "I can't tell you," he confessed in the end.

"Why can't you tell me?"

He stared at her miserably. … "I've no right. … In spite of all I've said, in spite of the faith you so generously promise me, in your eyes I must still figure as a thief, a liar, an impostor—self-confessed. Men aren't made over by mere protestations, nor even by their own efforts, in an hour, or a day, or a week. But give me a year: if I can live a year in honesty, and earn my bread, and so prove my strength—then, perhaps, I might find the courage, the—the effrontery to tell you why I want your good opinion. … Now I've said far more than I meant or had any right to. I hope," he ventured pleadingly—"you're not offended."

Only an instant longer could she maintain her direct and unflinching look. Then, his meaning would no more be ignored. Her lashes fell; a tide of crimson flooded her face; and with a quick movement, pushing her chair a little from the table, she turned aside. But she said nothing.

He remained as he had been, bending eagerly toward her.