warm sloth of the sleepers indoors. He caught a glimpse of a face at a lower window, but the frozen brilliance of a lawn gleamed between him and it, and he could not see it clearly. He slowed his pace at the next street corner, and hesitated there until he remembered that the Conservatory of Music stood in the middle of the block below: then he turned in that direction, with the scarcely conscious intention of looking at the door through which she was to enter to her studies and the windows from which she was to look out.
He was thinking of her blissfully, deep in his dreams, when he heard a muffled sound of hurried footsteps behind him. He was in front of the Conservatory, now, and he walked very slowly, to let the passer-by go before him, so that he might stand and gaze if he pleased. He heard a quick breath at his elbow. He pretended to be curiously interested in the red stone building, bald and formal, among its stripped trees. A low voice—her voice—choked with mischief, asked: "Well? How do you like it?"
She was gasping between laughter and the attempt to catch her breath, flushed with the exertion of overtaking him and enjoying almost hysterically the awkwardness of his surprise. He stammered: "Why—how" He was not conscious of taking the hand which she held out to him. He stared at her in a dumb amazement that was ludicrous. "How did you"
"I saw you pass the house. Didn't you see me?—at the window?"
