You play with it--laugh at it!"
The young man interrupted her sharply.
"It's like this," he said. "When I am with you I am so happy I can't be
serious. When I am _not_ with you, it is _so_ serious that I am utterly
and completely wretched. You say my love offends you, bores you! I am
sorry, but what, in heaven's name, do you think your _not_ loving me is
doing to _me_? I am a wreck! I am a skeleton! Look at me!"
He let his bicycle fall, and stood with his hands open at his sides, as
though inviting her to gaze upon the ruin she had caused.
Four days of sun and rain, astride of a bicycle, without food or sleep,
had drawn his face into fine, hard lines, had bronzed it with a healthy
tan. His uniform, made by the same tailor that fitted him with polo
breeches, clung to him like a jersey. The spectacle he presented was
that of an extremely picturesque, handsome, manly youth, and of that
fact no one was better aware than himself.
"Look at me," he begged, sadly.
Miss Farrar was entirely unimpressed.
"I am!" she returned, coldly. "I never saw you looking so well--and you
know it." She gave a gasp of comprehension.
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