28 He walked up to her, and laid his hands on her shoulders. 

28

"Look at me," he said. 

She raised her eyes obediently. 

"Now tell me what is the matter!" he demanded. "There is something you are keeping from me! I haven't known you all these years for nothing, you know, Marie Celeste." 

There was a little laughing note of tenderness in his voice, and for a moment the girl swayed in his grasp. 

If only she could put her arms round his neck and lay her head on his breast and tell him the truth, the whole wretched truth of what she had heard! Even if he did not love her, it would be such exquisite relief to unburden her heart to him, but she did not dare! 

Chris had always hated what he called "scenes." Years ago, when they were both children, tears had been the last means whereby to win his sympathy or admiration. He liked a girl to be a "sport" he had always been nicest to her when she could take a knock without flinching under the pain. 

She remembered that now—forced herself to remember it, and nothing else, as she raised her eyes to his. 

"Yes—what is it?" he urged. "Don't be afraid! It's all right, whatever it is, I promise you." 

Twice her lips moved, but no words would come, and then with a rush of desperation she faltered: 

"It's only—it's only . . . you said just now—we had always been good friends . . ." 

"Did I?" he laughed. "I was rather under the impression that it was you who said that, but never mind. Go on!" 

"Well—well . . . Can't we go on . . . just being good friends?— just only being good friends, I mean." 

He did not answer, though it was not possible to mistake her meaning, and in the silence that followed it seemed to Marie that every hope she had cherished was throbbing away with each agonized heart beat. Then his hands fell slowly from her shoulders. 

"You mean—that you don't care for me?" 

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