ment. His head was bent low over her. She was so adorable. He mentally traced the soft curve of her chin. He could catch the faint perfume of her hair. It was wonderful. Fate had been marvelously kind to lead him to this room. And to lead her there too.
She was sewing a loose button on his shirt now. She was almost finished. He hastily tried to think of ways to detain her further. If he could only find more buttons for her to sew—!
He slyly pulled another button from his shirt. Then he took the scissors from the near-by table and boldly cut a whole row of buttons from his vest, which he had tossed upon a near-by chair. If she detected any of this stratagem, she did not admit it, but kept on patiently sewing whatever he handed her.
When at last there was no further subterfuge with which to hold her, he began to worry about what he must say to her. He must apologize for that incident in the train. He must explain why the kindly old lady had mistaken them for sweethearts. (The word made him feel all warm and pleasant inside now.) He must tell her why he had run out of the car away from her.
Finally he cleared his throat. "Miss Sayre, I just want to say that that thing on the train was just a misunderstanding. I didn't mean
