to a green slope where, Don knew, the first violets always budded; and when he found only leaves and no blossoms yet—for, of course, it was too early in the year—she took some of the hot-house flowers from her belt, made holes in the ground with the pin of her brooch, and stuck the stems in playfully. "There!" she said. "Now you pick them."
He took them out again one by one, careful not to break the delicate stalks, and held them out to her, laughing.
"Oh, thank you." She accepted them with a sparkling gravity. "Aren't they sweet! May I have them all? Wouldn't you like to keep some?"
Don stammered: "Ye—e—es."
"Have you a pin? No, I'll put them in your button-hole."
He could not look at her face; he kept his eyes on her frail wrists as she reached to the lapel of his coat and put the violets in the button-hole and patted them into place. When she stood back, a little flushed at her own daring, he raised his eyes to hers; and the look that passed between them was as innocent as affection and as tender as a caress.
Hours later they came loitering down the avenue towards home; and they came so slowly that Dexter—running ahead of them impatiently, waiting, and then running back—covered every foot of the way again and again. They were still talking, but with an easy friendliness now, and with a confident meeting of their glances. The sun, low in the west behind them, slanted its long rays on them in a glory as they came. The
