He grasped her hand at that, and drew it to his lips—they were on the second landing, alone, unwatched—and afterward exclaimed in a whisper, 'You're a dear!' Then quickly turned and left her.
That was half an hour ago. He had never kissed her hand before. But sometimes he had exclaimed in that same explosive way of his, 'You're a dear!' when she had said something that amused him.
She liked to have him say, 'You're a dear.' It was like making him laugh. Only nicer. She liked to make him laugh. She liked to have him kiss her hand like that, too. Of course it was just one of his mannerisms. In foreign countries it meant little more than shaking hands.
As Sheilah dressed to-night she performed the various rites slowly, with an awareness of her surroundings keener than ever before, because she was so soon to leave them. She had come to love this room of hers, hung here in the treetops, this bit of blue-lavender heaven, so dainty, so exquisite, so perfectly equipped. She glanced at the dressing-table, blue-lavender, like the walls, adorned with her girlhood silver only; at the chest of drawers to match, filled with soft, straight piles of her clothes only; at the low rocking-chair by the window, where so often she sat in contented solitude; at the bed, a broad
