"Of course I was kind," she interrupted; "and I don't mean to be anything else now."
"You know what I mean," he urged, though he did not know himself what he meant. "I had no idea that your going away would make any difference; if I had dreamed of it, I should have spoken long ago. And when I went to see you those few times at college—"
"Yes, you came and I was awfully glad to see you, too; but how many women's colleges have you visited in these four years? There was that Brooklyn girl you were devoted to at Bryn Mawr; and that pretty little French Canadian you rushed at Wellesley,—but of course I don't pretend to know the whole catalogue of them. That was all perfectly proper, you understand; I'm not complaining—"
"No; I wish you were," he said, bitterly. If he had known it, he was really enjoying this; there was, perhaps, at the bottom of his heart, a little vanity which these reminiscences appealed to. He rallied now:
"But you could afford to have me see other girls," he said. "You ought to know—you should have known all the time that you were the only one in all the world for me."
"That's a trifle obvious, Warry;" and she laughed. "You're not living up to your reputation for subtlety of approach."
"Evelyn"—his voice trembled; he was sure now that he was very much in love; "I tried to tell you before the carnival that the reason I didn't want you to appear in the ball was that I cared a great deal,—so very much,—that I love you!"
She stepped back, drawing the cape together at her throat.
"Please, Warry," she said pleadingly, "don't spoil everything by talking of such things. I wished that we might be the best of friends, but you insist on spoiling everything."
"Oh, I know," he broke in, "that I spoil things, that I'm a failure—a ne'er-do-well." It was not love that he was hungry for half so much as sympathy; they are often identical in such natures as his.