etings, and she knew now what but
a week ago was a surmise, that he belonged to the world of which she
had been dreaming--Mrs. Duncan's world. Again, there was that mysterious
barrier between them of which she had seen so many evidences. And yet
she sat still on her bench and looked at him.

Presently he turned, slowly, as if her eyes had compelled his. She sat
still--it was too late, then. In less than a minute he was standing
beside her, looking down at her with a smile that had in it a touch of
reproach.

"How do you do, Mr. Worthington?" said Cynthia, quietly.

"Mr. Worthington!" he cried, "you haven't called me that before. We are
not children any more," she said.

"What difference does that make?"

"A great deal," said Cynthia, not caring to define it.

"Cynthia," said Mr. Worthington, sitting down on the beach and facing
her, "do you think you've treated me just right?"

"Of course I do," she said, "or I should have treated you differently."

Bob ignored such quibbling.

"Why did you run away from that baseball game in Brampton? And why
couldn't you have answered my letter yesterday, if it were only a line?
And why have you avoided me here in Washington?"

It is very difficult to answer for another questions which one cannot
answer for one's self.

"I haven't avoided you," said Cynthia.

"I've been looking for you all over town this morning," said Bob, with
pardonable exaggeration, "and I believe that idiot Somers has, too."

"Then why should you call him an idiot?" Cynthia flashed.

Bob laughed.

"How you do catch a fellow up!" said he; admiringly. "We both found out
you'd gone out for a walk alone."

"How did you find it out?"

"Well," said Bob, hesitating, "we asked the colored doorkeeper."

"Mr. Worthington," said Cynthia, with an indignation that made
him quail, "do you think it right to ask a doorkeeper to spy on my
movements?"

"I'm sorry, Cynthia," he gasped, "I--I didn't think of it that way--and
he won't tell. Desperate cases require desperate remedies, you know."

But Cynthia was not appeased.

"If you wanted to see me," she said, "why didn't you send your card to
my room, and I would have come to the parlor."

"But I did send a note, and waited around all day."

How was she to tell him that it was to the tone of the note she
objected--to the hint of a clandestine meeting? She turned the light of
her eyes full upon him.

"Would you have been content to see me in the parlo