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 "I suppose it is because I often hear that you are awfully fond of her."

"That is not true, my dearest. I like her for the reason she thinks worlds of Marrion Latham, the dramatist. By the way, I had such a good letter from him to-day, so full of wonderful sympathy and friendship. I have often told him of you. I love that fellow. He knew I loved you before you did, I guess. You know, men in their friendships are trustful, they impose great confidences in each other, and are frank and outspoken. Even the solid, practical outside world recognizes the bonds of such faith, and looks with contempt upon the man who, having parted with his friend, reveals secrets which have been told him under the sacred profession of friendship."

"Why is it, Robert, that women cannot be true, or a man and woman cannot form a lasting, loyal friendship?"

"The first case, jealousy or envy breaks; the second generally ends in one falling in love with the other, and that spoils it," he explained.

She looked up archly: "Which will be the most enduring, your friendship for Marrion, or your love for me?"

"Please God that both shall last always," he answered, with reverence.