“I'm sorry, but I cannot love you.”
“I didn't think it would be possible,” I said.
“Oh yes, it would be possible,” she explained; “but, you see, I love another.”
I remember well how her frankness hurt me. I turned away, and had trouble to breathe for a moment. She saw the effect of her words, and said, by way of comfort: “But I think you're very, very nice; Henry likes you, too.”
Henry was her brother and my chum at school.
“I wish you would tell me what to do with him,” she went on, after a moment. “He's drinking, and behind in his work, and I am terribly worried.”
“It's nothing to worry about,” I said, though not in perfect innocence. “All great men drink—it helps 'em stand the strain, I suppose.”
“Havelock, you talk like a child,” she answered. “These leading men are leading us in the wrong direction. You boys think that they are so wonderful you begin to take after them. Look at Ralph. He's going to the bad as fast as possible. I'd pack up and go home with Henry if—”
Her eyes filled with tears. I sat silent and full of shame, and quite aware of her secret. She loved Ralph Buckstone, the good-looking son of the great Colonel.
“You love him, don't you?” I said, sorrowfully.