“Forgive me,” she stammered. “You are a better friend to me than — many� . I am not angry, Euan.”

At that I could scarce control my own voice:

“Lanette — little Lana! Find it in your generous heart to offer me my pardon, for I have conducted like a yokel and a fool! But — but I really do love you.”

“I know it, Euan. I did not know it was in me to use you so cruelly. Let us be friends again. Will you?”

“Will you, Lana?”

“Willingly — oh, with all my heart! And — I am not very happy, Euan. Bear with me a little� . There is a letter come from Clarissa; perhaps it is that which edges my tongue and temper —