he said, "but all boys are. He'll get
over it."

"You talk as if you were a hundred, Maudie," laughed Mrs. Mortimer.
"He's older than you are."

"Oh, but boys are much younger than girls, Mrs. Mortimer. Harry
Sterling's quite a boy still."

A knock sounded at the door. A minute later the boy walked in. The
sight of Maudie Sinclair produced a momentary start, but he recovered
himself and delivered a note from his mother, the excuse for his visit.
It was an invitation for a few days ahead; there could certainly have
been no hurry for it to arrive that night. While Mrs. Mortimer read
it, Harry sat down and looked at her. She was obliged to treat his
arrival as unimportant, and invited him to have a glass of wine.

"Why are you in evening dress?" asked Maudie wonderingly.

"For dinner," answered Harry.

"Do you dress when you're alone at home?"

"Generally. Most men do."

Maudie allowed herself to laugh. Mrs. Mortimer saw the joke, too, but
its amusement was bitter to her.

"I like it," she said gently. "Most of the men I know do it."

"Your husband doesn't," observed Miss Sinclair.

"Poor George gets down from town so tired."

She gave Harry the reply she had written (it was a refusal--she could
not have told why), but he seemed not to understand that he was to go.
Before he apprehended, she had to give him a significant glance; she
gave it in dread of Maudie's eyes. She knew how sharp schoolgirls'
eyes are in such things. Whether Maudie saw it or not, Harry did; he
sprang to his feet and said good-night.

Maudie was not long after him. The conversation languished, and there
was nothing to keep her. With an honest yawn she took her leave. Mrs.
Mortimer accompanied her down the garden to the gate. As she went, she
became to her startled horror aware of a third person in the garden.
She got rid of Maudie as soon as she could, and turned back to the
house. Harry, emerging from behind a tree, stood before her.

"I know what you're going to say," he said doggedly, "but I couldn't
help it. I was dying to see you again." She spread out her hands as
though to push him away. She was like a frightened girl.

"Oh, you're mad!" she whispered. "You must go. Suppose anyone should
come. Suppose my husband----"

"I can't help it. I won't stay long."

"Harry, Harry, don't be cruel! You'll ruin me, Harry. If you love me,
go--if you love me."

Even now he hardly fathomed her distress, but she ha