Frank does not seem inclined to speak again.
"Your story is _not_ true," say I, presently, laughing uncomfortably, and unable to do the one wise thing in my reach, and leave the subject alone--"but untrue stories are often amusing, more amusing than the true ones.

You may tell yours, if you like." "I have not the slightest wish." A few steps more.

How quickly we are getting through the park! We shall reach the church, and I shall not have heard.

I shall sit and stand and kneel all through the service with the pain of that gnawing curiosity--that hateful new vague jealousy aching at my heart.
It is _impossible_! I stop.

I stand stock-still in the summer grass.
"I _hate_ your hints! I hate your innuendoes!" I say, passionately.