In all she showed the same calm
candor and tenderness. In all he showed the same humorous quaintness and
good sense. Lawrence Newt observed that these interviews were becoming
longer and longer, although the affairs to arrange really became fewer.
He could not discover that there was any particular reason for it; and
yet he became uncomfortable in the degree that he was conscious of it.

When the Round Table met, it was evident from the conversation between
Hope Wayne and Lawrence Newt that he was very often at her house; and
sometimes, whenever they all appeared to be conscious that each one was
thinking of that fact, the cloud of constraint settled more heavily, but
just as impalpably as before, over the little circle. It was not removed
by the conviction which Amy Waring and Arthur Merlin entertained, that at
all such times Hope Wayne was trying not to show that she was peculiarly
excited by this consciousness.

And she was excited by it. She knew that the interviews were longer and
longer, and that there was less reason than ever for any interviews
whatsoever. But when Lawrence Newt was talking to her--when he was
looking at her--when he was moving about the room--she was happier than
she had ever been--happier than she had supposed she could ever be. When
he went, that day was done. Nor did another dawn until he came again.

Perhaps Hope Wayne understood the meaning of that mysterious constraint
which now so often enveloped the Round Table.

As for Arthur Merlin, the poor fellow did what all poor fellows do. So
long as it was uncertain whether she loved him or not, he was willing to
say nothing. But when he was perfectly sure that there was no hope for
him, he resolved to speak.

In vain his Aunt Winnifred had tried to cheer him. Ever since the morning
when he had told her in his studio the lovely legend of Latmos he could
not persuade himself that he had not unwittingly told his own story. Aunt
Winnifred showered the choicest tracts about his room. She said with a
sigh that she was sure he had experienced no change of heart; and Arthur
replied, with a melancholy smile, "Not the slightest."

The kind old lady was sorely puzzled. It did not occur to her that
her Arthur could be the victim of an unfortunate attachment, like the
love-lorn heroes of whom she had read in the evil days when she read
novels. It did not occur to her, because she could as easily have
supposed a rose-tree to resist June as any woman he