His play was short-lived. He could not be gay, even under her influence.
"Please don't jest," he said, frowning. "Can't we talk of something besides love and war?"
"They seem to be popular just now," she replied, audaciously. "Anyway, all's fair—you know."
"No, it is not fair," he returned, low-voiced and earnest. "So once for all let me beg of you, don't jest. Oh, I know you're sweet. You're full of so many wonderful, surprising words and looks. I can't understand you.… But I beg of you, don't make me a fool!"
"Well, if you pay such compliments and if I—want them—what then? You are very original, very gallant, Mr. Kurt Dorn, and I—I rather like you."
"I'll get angry with you," he threatened.
"You couldn't.… I'm the only girl you're going to leave behind—and if you got angry I'd never write to you."
It thrilled Lenore and wrung her heart to see how her talk affected him. He was in a torment. He believed she spoke lightly, girlishly, to tease him—that she was only a gay-hearted girl, fancy-free and just a little proud of her conquest over even him.
"I surrender. Say what you like," he said, resignedly. "I'll stand anything—just to get your letters."
"If you go I'll write as often as you want me to," she replied.