why you haven't told me."

He had straightened himself again, and there was something rather
mournful in his look. "I have no _fiancée_, little one," he said.

"No?" Chris smiled all over her sunny face. She looked the merest child
standing before him wrapped in the mackintosh that flapped about her bare
ankles, the ruddy hair all loose about her back. "Then whatever made you
pretend you had?" she said.

He smiled back, half against his will, with the eloquent shrug that
generally served him where speech was awkward.

"And the woman you fought about?" she continued relentlessly.

"Mademoiselle Christine," he pleaded, "you ask of me the impossible. You
do not know what you ask."

"Don't be silly," said Chris imperiously. The matter had somehow become
of the first importance, and she had every intention of gaining her end.
"It isn't fair not to tell me now, unless," with sudden doubt, "it's
somebody whose acquaintance you are ashamed of."

He winced at that, and drew himself up so sharply that she thought for a
moment that he was about to turn on his heel and walk away. Then very
quietly he spoke.

"You will not understand, and yet you constrain me to speak.
Mademoiselle, I am without shame in this matter. It is true that I fought
in the cause of a woman, perhaps it would be more true if I said of a