he kept her face close
to the pane.

"You make me tired with Sylvia," she said. "It's about time you did
know what she's like. She's just the commonplace, short-tempered,
disagreeable-if-she-doesn't-get-her-own-way, unreasonable woman. Only
more so."

He drew her away from the window by brute force.

"So you're Sylvia," he said.

"I thought that would get it into your head," said Ann.

It was not at all the way she had meant to break it to him. She had
meant the conversation to be chiefly about Sylvia. She had a high
opinion of Sylvia, a much higher opinion than she had of Ann Kavanagh.
If he proved to be worthy of her--of Sylvia, that is, then, with the
whimsical smile that she felt belonged to Sylvia, she would remark
quite simply, "Well, what have you got to say to her?"

What had happened to interfere with the programme was Ann Kavanagh. It
seemed that Ann Kavanagh had disliked Matthew Pole less than she had
thought she did. It was after he had sailed away that little Ann
Kavanagh had discovered this. If only he had shown a little more
interest in, a little more appreciation of, Ann Kavanagh! He could be
kind and thoughtful in a patronising sort of way. Even that would not
have mattered if there had been any justification for his airs of
superiority.

Ann Kavanagh, who ought to have taken a back seat on this occasion, had
persisted in coming to the front. It was so like her.

"Well," she said, "what are you going to say to her?" She did get it
in, after all.

"I was going," said Matthew, "to talk to her about Art and Literature,
touching, maybe, upon a few other subjects. Also, I might have
suggested our seeing each other again once or twice, just to get better
acquainted. And then I was going away."

"Why going away?" asked Ann.

"To see if I could forget you."

She turned to him. The fading light was full upon her face.

"I don't believe you could--again," she said.

"No," he agreed. "I'm afraid I couldn't."

"You're sure there's nobody else," said Ann, "that you're in love with.
Only us two?"

"Only you two," he said.

She was standing with her hand on old Abner's empty chair. "You've got
to choose," she said. She was trembling. Her voice sounded just a
little hard.

He came and stood beside her. "I want Ann," he said.

She held out her hand to him.

"I'm so glad you said Ann," she laughed.

THE FAWN GLOVES.

Always he remembered her as he saw her first: the