Miss Farrar instantly returned and placed both hands firmly upon the gate.
"I cannot understand you!" she said. "Don't you see that when you act as you do now, I can't even respect you? How do you think I could ever care, when you offend me so? You jest at what you pretend is the most serious thing in your life. You play with it—laugh at it!"
The young man interrupted her sharply.
"It's like this," he said. "When I am with you I am so happy I can't be serious. When I am not with you, it is so serious that I am utterly and completely wretched. You say my love offends you, bores you! I am sorry, but what, in heaven's name, do you think your not loving me is doing to me? I am a wreck! I am a skeleton! Look at me!"
He let his bicycle fall, and stood with his hands open at his sides, as though inviting her to gaze upon the ruin she had caused.
Four days of sun and rain, astride of a bicycle, without food or sleep, had drawn his face into fine, hard lines, had bronzed it with a healthy tan. His uniform, made by the same tailor that fitted him with polo breeches, clung to him like a jersey. The spectacle he presented was that of an extremely picturesque, handsome, manly youth, and of that fact no one was better aware than himself.
"Look at me," he begged, sadly.
Miss Farrar was entirely unimpressed.
"I am!" she returned, coldly. "I never saw you looking so well—and you know it." She gave a gasp of comprehension. "You came here because you knew your uniform was becoming!"
Lathrop regarded himself complacently.