"You've been hard on his patience."

He stiffened faintly. "Possibly."

She laid her hand on his arm. "Now don't sulk, Wint. Please."

"I'm not sulking."

"You're too quick on the trigger. You get angry at the least thing." She laughed softly, in a way that robbed her words of sting. "Wint, you're as proud as a peacock, and as stubborn as a mule. As soon as anyone criticizes you for doing a thing--you go right off and do it again. That's no way to do, Wint."

He made no comment, and when she looked at him, she saw that his face was set and hard, and she laid a hand on his arm. "Wint--don't you think I'm a--good friend of yours?"

"If you're not more than that, Joan--I'm through." His eyes searched hers; she met his bravely.

"I am--more than that, Wint. So you must let me tell you things frankly. Wint, you must learn to see that when people criticize you, or advise you, it's more often than not because they really wish you well. Most people wish other people well, Wint."

"That has not been my experience."

She shook his arm, laughing. "Wint! Don't be silly! You talk like a disappointed man--when you ought to talk like a fine, strong, hopeful one."

He laid his hand on hers, where it rested in the crook of his arm. "You're a big-heart, Joan. You like everyone, and trust them and everyone is good to you. You--can't get my viewpoint."

"I can too, Wint. For you haven't any viewpoint. You're just the plaything of a little devil of perversity that makes you do things you know you--oughtn't to do--just to prove that you can."

They came, abruptly, to her gate. She paused to say good-by. His eyes were angry; but he said quietly: "May I come tonight?"

She shook her head. "Not every night, Wint. Tomorrow?"

"Please?"

"I--no, Wint."

He straightened stiffly. "Very well. Good night." He lifted his hat and stalked away.

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