"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. Tomorrow 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. Good night."
"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.
