nation of
how memory chanced to retain him. But it did not occur to him to ask
himself how it happened that, in all these years, and in a life so
happily varied, so delightfully crowded as his own had always been, he
had never entirely forgotten her.

"I wish you'd open that letter and read it," he said. "It's my
credential. Date and postmark plead for me."

But she had other plans for its unsealing and its perusal, and said
so.

"Aren't you going to read it, Athalie?"

"Yes--when you go."

"Why?"

"Because--it will make your visit seem a little longer," she said
frankly.

"Athalie, are you really glad to see me?"

She looked up as though he were jesting, and caught in his eye another
gleam of that sudden seriousness which had already slightly confused
her. For a moment only, both felt the least sense of constraint, then
the instinct that had forbidden her to admit any significance in his
seriousness, parted her lips with that engaging smile which he had
begun to know so well, and to await with an expectancy that approached
fascination.

"Peach turnovers," she said. "Do you remember? If I had not been glad
to see you in those days I would not have gone into the kitchen to
bring you one.... And I have already told you that I am unchanged....
Wait! I am changed.... I am very much wealthier." And she laughed her
delicious, unembarrassed laugh of a child.

He laughed, too, then shot a glance around the shabby room.

"What are you doing, Athalie?" he asked lightly.

"The same."

"I remember you told me. You are stenographer and typist."

"Yes."

"Where?"

"I am with Wahlbaum, Grossman & Co."

"Are they decent to you?"

"Very."

He thought a moment, hesitated, appeared as though about to speak,
then seemed to reject the idea whatever it might have been.

"You live with your sisters, don't you?" he asked.

"Yes."

He planted his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, his head on his
hands, apparently buried in thought.

After a little while: "C. Bailey, Junior," she ventured, "you must not
let me keep you too long."

"What?" He lifted his head.

"You are on your way to the opera, aren't you?"

"Am I? That's so.... I'd rather stay here if you'll let me."

"But the _opera_!" she protested with emphasis.

"What do I care for the opera?"

"Don't you?"

He laughed: "No; do you?"

"I'm mad about it."

Still laughing he said: "Then, in my place, _you_ wouldn't give up the
opera for _me