"Well, Sempland," said Lacy, with astonishing courtesy and forbearance under all the circumstances, as he overtook the other man plodding along the shaded street, "you don't seem to be in much greater favor with the young lady than I."
"Lacy," returned the other, "you did well this evening. You are not good enough for Miss Glen, I still think. Nobody is, for that matter, but you less than others. My opinion of you, you know—"
"Faith, all the world may know it apparently!"
"That's unjust. I have never mentioned it to any one, and should not have expressed it to Miss Glen had it not been to save her. But you showed the stuff that was in you, that used to be in you, to-night. It was fine. I thank you for having said—" he paused.
"What?" asked Lacy.
"Why, that about my not having had a chance, you know."
"Oh, that was a trifle."
"I know. But not many men would have said it at the time."
"I tell you what it is, Sempland. I like you, I always have liked you. When I—er—dropped out of the old set, you know, before the war, I didn't mind giving up any one so much as you. And I was sorry for you to-night. You hadn't had a chance. God knows I love the girl, but I am not the man for her. I would break her heart in a month. You don't know women, I take it, but I think she will be yours in the end. I give her to you."
"She is not yours to give."