"Oh no!" she said, hurriedly. "Let things drop between us; here--forever."

Amory stood before her with an expression which reminded her of his description of himself--obstinate; yes, he looked it.

"Why?" he urged. "Just because you are not to marry Tom, is there any reason why we should not like each other--is there? That is--if we do! I do," he laughed. "Do you?"

Her lids had dropped; she looked very slim, and young, and shy. "Yes,"

she said.

It gave Amory a good deal of pleasure for a monosyllable.

"Well, then, your number?" he said.

She shook her head.

"I'll ask Tom," he retorted. "He will tell me."

He was baffled and curiously charmed by the smile that touched her sharply curved young mouth.

"Tom may," she said.

"I was ready to accept you as a sister," he persisted, "and you won't even admit me as a casual visitor!"

She took a step toward the door. "Wait till you hear Tom's story," she said.

Amory stared curiously at her. "Do you think he will be vindictive, after all?" he said. "Why should he be, if what you say is just?"

She paused. "Wait till you see Tom and Mrs. White; then if you want to know me, why--" She was blushing again.

"Well," Amory demanded, "what shall I do?"

She looked up with a sort of childish charm, curling her lip, lighting her eyes with something of laughter and mischief. "Why, look for me and you'll find me."

"Find you?" repeated Amory, bewildered.

She nodded. "Yes, if you look. To-morrow will be Sunday; every one will be going to church, and I with them. Stand on the steps of this house at 10.30 precisely, and look as far as you can, and you will see--me.

Goodnight."

"Good night." Amory took her hand. "Let me see you home; it's dark."

She laughed. "You don't lack persistency, do you?" she said, with a sweetness which gave the words a pleasant twist. "But don't come, please. I'm used to taking care of myself; but--before I go let me write my note also." She went to the desk and scratched a line, and folding it, handed it to him. "There," she said; "read Mrs. White's note and then that, but wait till you hear the house door bang. Promise not before."

"Please--" began Amory.

"Promise," she repeated.

"I promise," he said, and again they shook hands for good-by.

"That's three times," thought the girl as she went to the door, and turning an instant, she smiled at him. "Good-by." The door closed softly behind her, and Amory waited a moment, then went to it, and opening it, listened; the house door shut lightly, and seizing his notes, he stood by the window in the twilight and read them. The first was as follows:

"DEAR MR. AMORY,--Mary and I had to return unexpectedly to Cleveland.

Forgive our missing this chance of meeting you, but Mr. White's note is urgent, as his sister is very ill. Mary regrets greatly not seeing you before the wedding.

"Yours sincerely,

"BARBARA WHITE."

Amory threw the paper down. "Do I see visions?" he cried, and hastily unfolded the second; it ran as follows:

"Forgive me; I got into the wrong house, the wrong room. I was very tired, and my latch-key fitted, and I didn't know until I saw your fire, and then you came. Don't think me a very bold and horrid girl, and forgive me. Your fire was so warm and bright, and--you were kind.

"M."

Amory stared at the paper a moment; then, catching his hat and flying down the stairs, opened the outer door.

The night was bitter cold, with a white frost everywhere; but in the twilight no solitary figure was in view; the long street was empty. He ran the length of it, then back to his room, and throwing down his hat, he lit his pipe. It needed thought.

BRAYBRIDGE'S OFFER

WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS

We had ordered our dinners and were sitting in the Turkish room at the club, waiting to be called, each in his turn, to the dining-room. With its mixture of Oriental appointments in curtains, cushions, and little tables of teak-wood the Turkish room expressed rather an adventurous conception of the Ottoman taste; but it was always a cozy place whether you found yourself in it with cigars and coffee after dinner, or with whatever liquid or solid appetizer you preferred in the half-hour or more that must pa.s.s before dinner after you had made out your menu. It intimated an exclusive possession in the three or four who happened first to find themselves together in it, and it invited the philosophic mind to contemplation more than any other spot in the club.

Our rather limited little down-town dining club was almost a celibate community at most times. A few husbands and fathers joined us at lunch; but at dinner we were nearly always a company of bachelors, dropping in an hour or so before we wished to dine, and ordering from a bill of fare what we liked. Some dozed away the intervening time; some read the evening papers, or played chess; I preferred the chance society of the Turkish room. I could be pretty sure of finding Wanhope there in these sympathetic moments, and where Wanhope was there would probably be Rulledge, pa.s.sively willing to listen and agree, and Minver ready to interrupt and dispute. I myself liked to look in and linger for either the reasoning or the bickering, as it happened, and now seeing the three there together, I took a provisional seat behind the painter, who made no sign of knowing I was present. Rulledge was eating a caviar sandwich, which he had brought from the afternoon tea-table near by, and he greedily incited Wanhope to go on, in the polite pause which the psychologist had let follow on my appearance, with what he was saying. I was not surprised to find that his talk related to a fact just then intensely interesting to the few, rapidly becoming the many, who were privy to it; though Wanhope had the air of stooping to it from a higher range of thinking.

"I shouldn't have supposed, somehow," he said with a knot of deprecation between his fine eyes, "that he would have had the pluck."

"Perhaps he hadn't," Minver suggested.

Wanhope waited for a thoughtful moment of censure eventuating in toleration. "You mean that she--"

"I don't see why you say that, Minver," Rulledge interposed chivalrously, with his mouth full of sandwich.

"I didn't say it," Minver contradicted.

"You implied it; and I don't think it's fair. It's easy enough to build up a report of that kind on the half-knowledge of rumor which is all that any outsider can have in the case."

"So far," Minver said, with unbroken tranquillity, "as any such edifice has been erected, you are the architect, Rulledge. I shouldn't think you would like to go round insinuating that sort of thing. Here is Acton,"

and he now acknowledged my presence with a backward twist of his head, "on the alert for material already. You ought to be more careful where Acton is, Rulledge."

"It would be great copy if it were true," I owned.