fur, disclosed himself in evening dress.

She had dropped into the arm-chair by the radiator; and, as he came
forward, stripping off his white gloves, suddenly she became conscious
of her bare, slippered feet and drew them under the edges of her
negligee.

"I was not expecting anybody,--" she began, and checked herself.
Certainly she did not care to rise, now, and pass before him in search
of more suitable clothing. Therefore the less said the better.

He had found a rather shaky chair, and had drawn it up in front of the
radiator.

"This is very jolly," he said. "Do you realise that this is our third
encounter?"

"Yes."

"It really begins to look inevitable, doesn't it?"

She smiled.

"Three times, you know, is usually considered significant," he added
laughingly. "It doesn't dismay you, does it?"

She laughed, resting her cheek against the upholstered wing of her
chair and looked at him with shy but undisguised pleasure.

"You haven't changed a single bit, Athalie," he declared.

"No, I haven't changed."

"Do you remember our last meeting--on the Elevated?"

"Yes."

"Lord!" he said; "that was four years ago. Do you realise it?"

"Yes."

A slight colour grew on his cheeks.

"I _was_ a piker, wasn't I?"

After a moment, looking down at her idly clasped hands lying on her
knees: "I hoped you would come," she said gravely.

"I wanted to. I don't suppose you'll believe that; but I did.... I
don't know how it happened that I didn't make good. There were so many
things to do, all sorts of engagements,--and the summer vacation
seemed ended before I could understand that it had begun."--He scowled
in retrospection, and she watched his expression out of her dark blue
eyes--clear, engaging eyes, sweet as a child's.

"That's no excuse," he concluded. "I should have kept my word to
you--and I really wanted to.... And I was not quite such a piker as
you thought me."

"I didn't think that of you, C. Bailey, Junior."

"You must have!"

"I didn't."

"That's because you're so decent, but it makes my infamy the
blacker.... Anyway I _did_ write you and _did_ send you the
strap-watch. I sent both to Fifty-fourth Street. The Dead Letter
Office returned them to me."... He drew from his inner pocket a
letter and a packet. "Here they are."

She sat up slowly and very slowly took the letter from his hand.

"Four years old," he commented. "Isn't that the limit?" And he began
to tear the sealed paper from the