THE GIRL IN HIS HOUSE
lured him back—Clare Sanderson, born Wendell.
"Jimmie Armitage!" she said. She came around and held out her hand.
Armitage rose and took it, not without some trepidation. Miss Athelstone got up also. She nodded brightly. She understood. These two were old friends. Mrs. Burlingham had given her a glimpse of the history concerning them. But before she moved off Armitage covertly compared these two women. The white peony and the rose; one was magnificent and the other was just lovely.
"I can see that you are old friends, dying to talk," said the rose.
"We are," replied the peony, taking it for granted that she was speaking the truth.
"To-morrow at nine, Mr. Armitage."
"I'll be there."
Clare sat down, and, rather reluctantly, Armitage sat down beside her. After all, he might as well have this thing over with. He could not stay in New York and go among his old friends without meeting Clare.
"I'm glad to see you home again. Betty told me this morning. I suppose you've
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