"When may I come again?" he asked.
"I want so much to hear everything about South Africa. Won't you come to-morrow at six?" she asked.
"Certainly, to-morrow at six," he answered, eagerly, "and thank you."
His honest look of admiration enveloped her as her hand was again lost in his strong, generous palm, and lay there for a moment thrilling him.... He turned at the door and looked back, and the smile she gave seemed the most delightful thing he had ever seen.
"She is a flower, a jasmine-flower," he said, happily, as he made his way into the street.
When he had gone she fled to her bedroom. Standing before the mirror, she looked at herself long, laughing feverishly. Then suddenly she turned and threw herself upon the bed, bursting into a passion of tears. Sobs shook her.
"Oh, Ian," she said, raising her head at last, "oh, Ian, Ian, I hate myself!"
Down in the library her stepmother was saying to her father, "You are right, Jasmine will marry the nabob."
"I am sorry for Ian Stafford," was the response.
"Men get over such things," came the quietly cynical reply.