Merwyn had never proposed to sue at all, except in the way of conventional gallantry.  For his own amusement he had resolved to become her most intimate and familiar friend, and then it would be time to go abroad.  If false hopes were raised it would not much matter; Strahan or some one else would console her.  He admitted that his progress was slow, and her reserve hard to combat.  She would neither drive nor sail with him unless she formed one of a party.  Still in this respect he was on the same footing with her best friends.  One thing did trouble him, however; she had never given him her hand, either in greeting or in parting.

At last he brought about an explanation that disturbed his equanimity not a little.  He had called in the morning, and she had chatted charmingly with him on impersonal matters, pleasing him by her intelligent and gracefully spoken ideas on the topics broached.  As a society girl she met him on this neutral ground without the slightest restraint or embarrassment.  As he also talked well she had no scruple in enjoying a pleasure unsought by herself, especially as it might lead to the punishment which she felt that he deserved.  Smilingly she had assured herself, when he was announced, “If he’s a rebel at heart, as I’ve been told, I’ve met the enemy before either Mr. Lane or Mr. Strahan.”

When Merwyn rose to take his leave he held out his hand and said:  “I shall be absent two or three days.  In saying good-by won’t you shake hands?”

She laughingly put her hands behind her back and said, “I can’t.”

“Will not, you mean?”

“No, I cannot.  I’ve made a vow to give my hand only to my own friends and those of my country.”

“Do you look upon me as an enemy?”

“Oh, no, indeed.”

“Then not as a friend?”

“Why, certainly not, Mr. Merwyn.  You know that you are not my friend.  What does the word mean?”

“Well,” said he, flushing, “what does it mean?”

“Nothing more to me than to any other sincere person.  One uses downright sincerity with a friend, and would rather harm himself than that friend.”

“Why is not this my attitude towards you?”

“You, naturally, should know better than I.”

“Indeed, Miss Vosburgh, you little know the admiration you have excited,” he said, gallantly.

An inscrutable smile was her only response.

“That, however, has become like the air you breathe, no doubt.”

“Not at all.  I prize admiration.  What woman does not?  But there are as many kinds of admiration as there are donors.”

“Am I to infer that mine is of a valueless nature?”

“Ask yourself, Mr. Merwyn, just what it is worth.”

“It is greater than I have ever bestowed upon any one else,” he said, hastily; for this tilt was disturbing his self-possession.

Again she smiled, and her thought was, “Except yourself.”