'You're--queer,' she said.

'Yes'--his face twisted curiously--'I suppose if I shot things and
chased them, you'd like me better. But I can't--not even for that, but
perhaps, some day--' He seemed to lose himself in the vagueness of his
thoughts.

She finished his sentence gaily, for after all, it was absurd to
quarrel with him. 'Some day we'll go to a concert.'

He recovered himself. 'More than that,' he said. He nodded his head
with unexpected vigour. 'You'll see.'

She gazed at him. It was wonderful to think of all the things that
might happen to a person who was only twenty-one, but she hastily
corrected her thoughts. What could happen to her? In a few short days
events had rushed together and exhausted themselves at their source!
There was nothing left. She said good-bye to Charles and thought him
foolish not to offer to accompany her. She said, 'It's a very long way
to Sales Hall,' and he answered, 'Oh, you'll meet that man somewhere,
potting at rabbits.'

'Do you think so? I hope he won't shoot me.' And she saw herself
stretched on the ground, wounded, dying, with just enough force to
utter words he could never forget--words that would change his whole
life. She was willing to sacrifice herself and she said good-bye to
Charles again, and sorrowfully, as though she were already dead. She
tried to plan her dying words, but as she could not hit on
satisfactory ones, she contented herself with deciding that whether