“Couldn’t help remembering.  No credit to me.  I—­you were always in my mind.”

She was busily unwrapping the box.

“Always,” he repeated, unsteadily.

“What gorgeous things!” she buried her face in them.

“Did you hear what I said, Lily?”

“Yes, and it’s sweet of you.  Now sit down and tell me about things.  I’ve got a lot to tell you, too.”

He had a sort of quiet obstinacy, however, and he did not sit down.  When she had done so he stood in front of her, looking down at her.

“You’ve been in a camp.  I know that.  I heard it over there.  Anne Devereaux wrote me.  It worried me because—­we had girls in the camps over there, and every one of them had a string of suitors a mile long.”

“Well, I didn’t,” said Lily, spiritedly.  Then she laughed.  He had been afraid she would laugh.  “Oh, Pink, how dear and funny and masculine you are!  I have a perfectly uncontrollable desire to kiss you.”

Which she did, to his amazement and consternation.  Nothing she could have done would more effectually have shown him the hopelessness of his situation than that sisterly impulse.

“Good Lord,” he gasped, “Grayson’s in the hall.”

“If he comes in I shall probably do it again.  Pink, you darling child, you are still the little boy at Mrs. Van Buren’s and if you would only purse your lips and count one—­two—­three—­Are you staying to luncheon?”

He was suffering terribly.  Also he felt strangely empty inside, because something that he had carried around with him for a long time seemed to have suddenly moved out and left a vacancy.

“Thanks.  I think not, Lily; I’ve got a lot to do to-day.”

She sat very still.  She had had to do it, had had to show him, somehow, that she loved him without loving him as he wanted her to.  She had acted on impulse, on an impulse born of intention, but she had hurt him.  It was in every line of his rigid body and set face.

“You’re not angry, Pink dear?”

“There’s nothing to be angry about,” he said, stolidly.  “Things have been going on, with me, and staying where they’ve always been, with you.  That’s all.  I’m not very keen, you know, and I used to think —­Your people like me.  I mean, they wouldn’t—­”

“Everybody likes you, Pink.”

“Well, I’ll trot along.”  He moved a step, hesitated.  “Is there anybody else, Lily?”

“Nobody.”

“You won’t mind if I hang around a bit, then?  You can always send me off when you are sick of me.  Which you couldn’t if you were fool enough to marry me.”

“Whoever does marry you, dear, will be a lucky woman.”

In the end he stayed to luncheon, and managed to eat a very fair one.  But he had little lapses into silence, and Grace Cardew drew her own shrewd conclusions.

“He’s such a nice boy, Lily,” she said, after he had gone.  “And your grandfather would like it.  In a way I think he expects it.”