to be a sort
of lurking danger that I may make a damned fool of myself."

"Improbable?" commented the listener. "Your blood is too temperate."

"So I thought; but one never knows. Unexpected feelings crop up in a
fellow. We won't talk about it just now. How have things been going in
the architectural line?"

"Not amiss. Steadily, I think."

Narramore lay back at full length, his face turned to the ceiling.

"Since I've been living out yonder, I've got a taste for the country. I
have a notion that, if brass bedsteads keep firm, I shall some day
build a little house of my own; an inexpensive little house, with a
tree or two about it. Just make me a few sketches, will you? When
you've nothing better to do, you know."

He played with the idea, till it took strong hold of him, and he began
to talk with most unwonted animation.

"Five or six thousand pounds--I ought to be able to sink that in a few
years. Not enough, eh? But I don't want a mansion. I'm quite serious
about this, Hilliard. When you re feeling ready to start on your own
account, you shall have the job."

Hilliard laughed grimly at the supposition that he would ever attain
professional independence, but his friend talked on, and overleaped
difficulties with a buoyancy of spirit which ultimately had its effect
upon the listener. When he was alone again, Hilliard felt better, both
in body and mind, and that evening, over the first bottle of
Narramore's port, he amused himself with sketching ideal cottages.

"The fellow's in love, at last. When a man thinks of pleasant little
country houses, 'with a tree or two' about them----"

He sighed, and ground his teeth, and sketched on.

Before bedtime, a sudden and profound shame possessed him. Was he not
behaving outrageously in neglecting to answer Eve's letter? For all he
knew the cold of which she complained might have caused her more
suffering than he himself had gone through from the like cause, and
that was bad enough. He seized paper and wrote to her as he had never
written before, borne on the very high flood of passionate longing.
Without regard to prudence he left the house at midnight and posted his
letter.

"It never occurred to me to blame you for not writing," Eve quickly
replied; "I'm afraid you are more sensitive than I am, and, to tell the
truth, I believe men generally _are_ more sensitive than women in
things of this kind. It pleased me very much to hear of the visit you
had had from Mr. N