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 to forget their quarrel of the night before. In other circumstances she might not have been so readily forgiving.

They turned toward the door and presently were walking down the street together. When they were alone, on a secluded side street, Malcolm assumed a somber bearing, one of melancholy dignity, tinged with tragedy.

“Lydia,” he said, “I—I want to speak to you about something. I’ve got to speak to you…. A year ago I—told you I loved you, and you were angry with me. I don’t know why. There isn’t anything wrong about loving a girl that I can see—anything she should take offense at.” He stopped and studied her face, which she turned toward him and then quickly turned away. She was not angry, he saw, as she had been before, and from this he drew hope.

“I’m going back to college in a few days, and then it will be a long time before I see you again…. Won’t you marry me? Won’t you tell me before I go away that you’ll be my wife—when I graduate?”

After a moment of hesitation she replied coldly, “I don’t want to marry anybody, Malcolm. I haven’t any idea of getting married, so don’t speak about it any more…. I’m not going to marry for years.”

“I haven’t a fair chance,” Malcolm