Finally she spoke.
"You may tell Mr. Harley," she said, with a sigh, "that I will
trouble him no more. He can do with me as he pleases in all save one
particular. He shall not marry me to a man I do not love. If he
takes the man I love for my hero, then will I follow him to the
death."
"And may I ask who that man is?"
"You may ask if you please," she replied, with a little smile. "But
I won't answer you, except to say that it isn't you."
"And am I forgiven for my runaway story?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "You wouldn't expect me to condemn a man for
loyalty to his friend, would you?"
With which understanding Miss Andrews and I continued our walk, and
when we parted I found that the little interview I had started to
write had turned into the suggestion of a romance, which I was in
duty bound to destroy--but I began to have a glimmering of an idea as
to who the man was that Marguerite Andrews wished for a hero, and I
regretted also to find myself convinced of the truth of her statement
that that man did not bear my name.
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