"Miss Gordon, may I ask you a very personal question?"
"Yes," said she.
"Are you in love with Victor Dorn?"
Selma laughed merrily. "Jane Hastings had that same curiosity," said she. "I'll answer you as I answered her—though she didn't ask me quite so directly. No, I am not in love with him. We are too busy to bother about those things. We have too much to do to think about ourselves."
"Then—there is no reason why I should not ask you to be my wife—why I should not hope—and try?"
She looked at him with a peculiar smile. "Yes, there is a very good reason. I do not love you, and I shall not love you. I shall not have time for that sort of thing."
"Don't you believe in love?"
"I don't believe in much else," said she. "But—not the kind of love you offer me."
"How do you know?" cried he. "I have not told you yet how I feel toward you. I have not——"
"Oh, yes, you have," interrupted she. "This is the second—no, the third time you have seen me. So, the love you offer me can only be of a kind it is not in the least flattering to a woman to inspire. You needn't apologize," she went on, laughingly. "I've no doubt you mean well. You simply don't understand me—my sort of woman."