Dodge listened to all with an interest that a barometer might feel. He was silent, except for a very few terse, direct questions. Not an exclamation escaped him, and not a point. As she neared the end, Gwendolen's voice gave way, and the little handkerchief was raised. Dodge moved a tree nearer.
"Now tell me what you think, tell me truly. I have buried my own thoughts in the earth, and sit here on their grave."
"Let my thoughts go there with yours, dear," said her companion, mournfully. "The affair is as bad as it could well be. Luck alone is going to save your friend, and from what I have seen and known of Miss Yuki, she doesn't seem marked out by good luck."
She did not resent his hopelessness. Apparently she had foreseen it. The telling of her story had eased while it had wearied her. She gave a long, sobbing sigh, like a child, and let her head droop.
Before she knew it Dodge's arm was around her. "I'd give my life to keep this and all other sorrows from you, Gwendolen. But all I can offer now is—myself. Come to me, darling, put your poor tired little head against me, and let me try to comfort you."
The girl began to tremble piteously. In her nervous state, the brimming tears soon overflowed. "No—no—" she whispered, trying to push him off. "It is not me you love,—you are Car-car—car-men's! She said so. You belong to Car-Carmen!"
"I belong to Carmen's cat!" cried Dodge. "What am I to Carmen or Carmen to me?"
"Then you de—ceived her!"
"Pshaw! I'll make Carmen a sugar man in my image. She'll like that lots better. I love only you—only you, you beautiful, golden, tormenting angel of a girl! If you hadn't kept me on pins and needles, I wouldn't say it! I love you, I say. How could any man in his senses ever love any other woman after once seeing you?"
Gwendolen tried to be stern. "No," she said again, "you don't love, you don't respect me. You were horrid that day! You defied me to my face. You wouldn't apologize. Will you apologize now?"