tuous sometimes." He smiled down into the soft, shy, dark eyes raised to his, and looked at his watch. "You must have waited a half-hour; I said four o'clock. I'm so sorry."
Her eyes dropped. "I was late, too," she answered, and felt a horrible weight lifted from her. (They surely could not be coming; she could go in a moment; he would never know until she was beyond his reach. But she reckoned without her host.)
"Draw up to the fire," he began, and wheeled up a big armchair, and gently made her sit in it. "Put your feet on the fender and let's have a long talk. You know I sha'n't see you before the wedding, and I'd like to know something of my brother's wife. Tom said I must see you once before you and he got off to Paris, and I may not be able to get West for the wedding; so this is the one chance I shall have." He drew his chair near, and looked down at her with friendly, pleasant eyes.
She must say something. She rested her head on the high back of her chair, and felt a sensation of bewildered happiness. It was dangerous; she must get away in a moment; but for a moment she might surely enjoy this extraordinary situation that fortune had thrust upon her—the charm of the room, the warmth, and something more wonderful still—companionship. She looked at him; she must say something.
"You think you can't come to the wedding?" she said, and blushed.
Amory shook his head. "I'm afraid not, though of course I shall try. Now"—he stared gravely at her—"now tell me how you came to know Tom and why you like him. I wonder if it is for my reasons or ones of your own."
He was surprised by the deep blush which answered his words. What a wonderful wild-rose color on her rather pale cheek!
"Don't you think it very warm in here?" said the girl.
Amory got up, and going to the window, opened it a little; then, stopping at his desk, picked up a note and brought it to the fire.
"Why, here is a note from Mrs. White," he said. "Why didn't you tell me?"
She had risen, and laid her hand an instant on his arm. "Don't open it—yet," she said. Her desperation lent her invention; just in this one way he must not find her out. She gave him a look, half arch, half pleading. "I'll explain later," she said.
Amory felt a stir of most unnecessary emotion; he understood Tom.
"Of course," he said, dropping it on the mantelpiece,—"just as you like. Now let's go back to Tom. You see,"—he sat down, and tipping his chair a little, gave her a rather curious smile,—"Tom and I have been enigmas to each other always, deeply attached and hopelessly incomprehensible, and I had my own ideas of what Tom would marry—and—you are not it;—not in the least!" He leant forward and brought his puzzled gaze to bear upon her.
She settled deeply into her chair, half to get farther away from those searching gray eyes, half because she was taking terrible risks, and she might as well enjoy it; the chair was so comfortable, and the fire so cheerful, and Amory—it occurred to her with a sort of exhilaration what it would be to please him. She had pleased other people, why not him? Her lids drooped; she looked down at her shabby gloves.
"What did you expect?" she said.
He leant back and laughed. "What did I expect? Well, frankly, a silly little blond thing, all curls and furbelows!"
She raised those heavy lids of hers and gazed straight at him. "Was that Tom's description?" she asked, and raised her eyebrows. They were delicately pencilled, and Amory watched her and noted them.
"No," he answered; "he didn't describe you, but I thought that was his taste. Now, you are neither silly nor little; no blonde; you have no curls and no furbelows. In fact"—he smiled with something delightfully intimate in his eyes—"in fact, you are much more the kind of girl I should like to marry."
It gave her an absurd little thrill. She sat up, rebellious. "If I would have liked you," she returned.
Amory laughed and put his hands in his pockets. "Of course," he said; "but you would, you know!"
"Why?" she demanded, opening her eyes very wide; and again he inwardly
