“I am sorry,” he said slowly. She wore a wonderful dress of turquoise blue, made by a great dressmaker for a function which she knew very well now that she would never attend. . . She was watching him intently. God only knows what I have done, or left undone. “It’s like this,” he said, and dragged a stool beside her and sat down with his elbow four inches from hers and made a sketch. It was just upon the stroke of nine as he entered the Lodge, and Mr. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time. “There’s endless reasons, no doubt, why we shouldn’t,” he said. She slipped past the servants, her soft roe-skin shoes unheard on the old stone. He left that arid rule clear of the least mist of refinement or delicacy. I was—I was a corespondent. " "We shall expect you to-morrow," insinuated Mrs.
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