"You're quite right," he said, smiling easily and naturally; "I am
unintentionally funny. And I really didn't know it--didn't suspect
it--until this moment."

"Oh," she said quickly. "I didn't mean--I know you are often
unhappy--"

"Nonsense!"

"You are! Anybody can see--and you really do not seem to be very
old, either--when you smile--"

"I'm not very old," he said, amused. "I'm not unhappy, either. If I
ever was, the truth is that I've almost forgotten by this time what
it was all about--"

"A woman," she quoted, "between friends"--and checked herself,
frightened that she had dared interpret Quair's malice.

He changed countenance at that; the dull red of anger clouded his
visage.

"Oh," she faltered, "I was not saucy, only sorry. . . . I have been
sorry for you so long--"

"Who intimated to you that a woman ever played any part in my
career?"

"It's generally supposed. I don't know anything more than that.
But I've been--sorry. Love is a very dreadful thing," she said under