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 fully. "I am afraid you resemble other men in one thing: you would not allow a woman to be your friend and still be herself, with her own mind and her own likings. No; those things, they must all be yours!"

"Not at all. Only"

"Only it is true," she said. "Very well. There is a simple solution; we need not be friends." And she rose, offering him her hand.

He stood up, to face her. "Your solution mightn't be so simple as you think—for me. Unfortunately, no matter how you treat me, I haven't been able to get you out of my head since the first moment I saw you, not for an instant. Yet I don't understand you. I don't know you. You mystify me in everything. You write me asking me to 'be kind,' begging me to 'understand'—and then you freeze me because an old woman is 'jealous' of you, you say; and after that you 'don't dare' even write a word to me; and you drive all afternoon with another man. It doesn't seem to me you've given me much chance to be your friend."

She looked at him thoughtfully. "Then I will now," she said; and they sat down again. "I will try to make you understand. Mademoiselle Daurel has been much more than jealous of me. The pro-