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 "Nothing—on her side—except friendship."

She broke out angrily: "I thought you had more sense! To go on making yourself miserable about a girl that never cared two straws about you. I don't see what you see in her—what men ever see in girls like her—silly little creatures. She's just using you—or wants to—because you're here in New York and she thinks you can help her. She ruined your college—your course at college for you, and now she'll—you'll let her do the same thing here. I thought you had more sense!"

"Don't . . . say such things," he replied gently.

"I will!" she cried. "It's the truth." She jerked the umbrella down in front of her against a slant of light from a street lamp. "It 'd be just like you to throw yourself away on a chit like that—who wouldn't half appreciate you."

"Please, don't!" he pleaded. "I—you don't understand. I—"

"I will, too!" Her voice broke. "I think too much of you to see you doing such a thing without trying to stop you. Let her stay away—or let her go back to Canada. You were just beginning to get along all right again when she must come upsetting all our plans and making you miserable." She threw away all her dignity, all her reserve. "Haven't I tried to—haven't I a right to Don't you even care enough for me to—to let me tell you—to let me help you?"

"You don't know," he said. "You don't understand. She's been—ever since I can remember—we've been . . . my whole life has—has grown up with her. All that's best"

"And haven't I? Ever since you were a little