"Are we friends still?"
"Of course, but—" He smiled. "Do you mind if I go?"
"I 'll see you out myself.
"O'Conor," she half whispered in the hall, "I'm an awful son of a gun. I should love you—you 're so fine, so decent, so—so everything—but I don't. I 'm sure I could never love any one. I 'm a very selfish woman, I sometimes think. It wouldn't have been worth while marrying me."
"You're not selfish, and you're very sweet, Margery."
"No, no! Shall I see you again?"
"I 'm afraid not. To-morrow I go to London, and from there to Africa."
"O'Conor, will you do something for me because we are friends?"
"Yes."
"Will you send me pictures of South Africa, and an occasional one of you, because we are friends?"