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 trouble, “what is it? You—you look as if something had happened…. I—don’t think I’m prying, but—if you want to tell me about it….”

Angus shook his head and turned away his eyes. “No,” he said, “I can’t…. I mustn't.”

“Is it—is it—” She stopped suddenly, for intuition had given her the answer to her unasked question. “It’s Lydia Canfield,” she said gently, and saw Angus’s hands clench the arms of his chair.

“What has she done to you?… Has she—did she say—no?”

“I can’t ask her…. I didn’t ask her.” The words seemed torn from him. “I won’t ask her.”

“Why?” Myrtle’s voice affected Angus as some unguent would affect a burn; it soothed him, eased his pain…. It loosened his tongue.

“I— how could I tell her?” he said. “You know—what I’ve been—all about me…. It’s something that can’t be—don’t you understand? It wouldn’t be right…. I never can ask anyone—to marry me. No one would marry me… not Lydia….”

“Angus Burke,” she said sharply, “you mustn’t say that—you mustn’t think such things. Why shouldn’t you ask Lydia—or anybody else to marry you?… Why, Angus, you don’t know yourself. You don’t know what people