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 involuntary gesture—his face wore an expression which the girl by his side could not identify, but it impressed her with its maturity, with its dignity.

“I—I’ve got to—” he said and stopped.

“Are they talking about you?” asked the girl.

“Yes—about me.”

“How cowardly—and I don’t believe a word of it.”

He looked down at her and there was a strange smile about the corners of his mouth. She read his gratitude. “Nobody wants me here,” he said, “I must go—this—is why I’ve never been to a party before.”

“Don’t go,” she said in a whisper. Tears stood in her eyes. “Don’t go…. Don’t let them drive you away.”

“You don’t understand…. It’s true. I am a—jailbird.”

She was a little thing, a stranger to him, but she owned a golden heart and a soul of sweetness. During a short silence she looked at him. “No,” she said, “it’s not true…. I shall be very glad to have you stay—with me…. I shall be proud.” It was a small thing, not costly to her, but generous, womanly. She would never know how much it meant to Angus Burke.

At that moment Lydia stepped into the light, followed by the expostulating Crane and the