"I—almost—believe you do—Paul."
"Opal!" He paused. She was tempting him again. Didn't she know it?
"Opal, can't—won't you believe in me? Don't you feel that you know me?"
"I'm not sure that I do—even yet—after—that! Oh, Paul, are you sure that you know yourself?"
"No, not sure, but I'm beginning to!"
She made no reply. After a moment, he said softly, "You haven't said that you forgive me, yet, Opal! I know there is no plausible excuse for me, but—listen! I couldn't help it—I truly couldn't! You simply must forgive me!"
"Couldn't help it?"—Oh, the scorn of her reply. "If there had been any man in you at all, you could have helped it!"
"No, Opal, you don't understand! It is because I am a man that I couldn't help it. It doesn't strike you that way now, I know, but—some day you will see it!"
And suddenly she did see it. And she reached out her hand to him, and whispered, "Then let's forget all about it. I am willing to—if you will!"
Forget? He would not promise that. He did not wish to forget! And she looked so pretty and provoking as she said it, that he wanted to—! But he only took her hand, and looked his gratitude into her eyes.