"The poor men, she means." Christine's high laugh followed the
lieutenant's speech, as the pair went on.

"He _is_ a bore!" Moya declared. "We can't even use him for a joke."

"Speaking of Lane, dear?"

"The Poor Man. Are you sure that you've got a sense of humor, Paul? Can't
we have charity for jokes among the other poor things?"

Paul had raised himself to the step beside her. "You are shivering," he
said, "I must let you go in."

"I'm not shivering--I'm chattering," she mocked. "Why should I go in when
we are going to be really serious?"

Paul waited a moment; his breath came short, as if he were facing a
postponed dread. "Moya, dear," he began in a forced tone, "I can't help my
constraints and convictions that bore you so, any more than you can help
your light heart--God bless it--and your theory of class which to me seems
mediaeval. I have cringed to it, like the coward a man is when he is in
love. But now I want you to know me."

He took her hand and kissed it repeatedly, as if impressing upon her the
one important fact back of all hypothesis and perilous efforts at
statement.

"Well, are you bidding me good-by?"

"You must give me time," he said. "It takes courage in these days for a