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 peace except when I'm with you, and then it almost kills me. What shall I do? what shall I do?" It was impossible for Austin to tell her what to do, for he was fully occupied telling himself what not to do—not to take her hand, not to pat her shoulder—not to offer her any sign of sympathy for fear it would end in something quite different.

"Now, just wait a moment," he contrived to say, and was horrified to find how strange his own voice sounded.

"Do you hate me to love you?" she asked.

"My dear child," he said, "I'll tell you something—nobody hates to be loved, and certainly no man could hate to be loved by a beautiful little being like you, and I've had a rotten life, and no one ever cared about me, except probably my mother, and I don't remember her."

Elise gave a gasp of joy; for, obviously, if no one had loved him, he had never really loved, for if he did he would be irresistible.

"But," he went on, "of course I'm not going to have you love me—not like this, because it isn't the best thing for you." He knew now what he had to do—he had to tell her about Susie; he wished that at the moment Susie seemed to him less like a vague agreeable perfume and more like a