"But you must--you, with your beauty, with your soul! Oh, Gladys,
you were made for love! You must love!"

"One must wait till it comes."

"But why can't you love me, Gladys? Is it my appearance, or what?"

She did unbend a little. She put forward a hand--such a gracious,
stooping attitude it was--and she pressed back my head. Then she
looked into my upturned face with a very wistful smile.

"No it isn't that," she said at last. "You're not a conceited
boy by nature, and so I can safely tell you it is not that.
It's deeper."

"My character?"

She nodded severely.

"What can I do to mend it? Do sit down and talk it over.
No, really, I won't if you'll only sit down!"

She looked at me with a wondering distrust which was much more to
my mind than her whole-hearted confidence. How primitive and
bestial it looks when you put it down in black and white!--and
perhaps after all it is only a feeling peculiar to myself.
Anyhow, she sat down.

"Now tell me what's amiss with me?"