ght have seen it
yesterday; have felt yesterday the muscular grip of John Dryden's hand.
Bewildered at their own emotion, laughing and confused, their fingers
clung together.

"Hello--Martie!" he said, in a shaken voice, his blue eyes suddenly
blazing as he saw her. Martie's eyes were wet, her delight turning her
cheeks to rose. John did not speak, unless his burning eyes spoke; and
Martie for a few minutes was hardly intelligible. It was the stranger
who spoke.

"I'm Dean Silver, Mrs. Bannister--you don't have to be introduced to
me, because I know John here. You're his favourite topic, you know."

"Dean Silver!" Martie smiled bewilderedly at the novelist; she knew
that name! He was a writer with twenty books to his credit. He had a
ranch somewhere in California; he spent his winters there. Some hazy
recollection struggled for recognition.

"But, John!" she laughed. "Here in Monroe! My dear, you'll never know
what it meant to glance up and see you--and you look so well! And
you're famous, too; isn't it wonderful! And, tell me, what brings you
to California!"

The quick, authoritative glance was delightfully familiar, yet somehow
new.

"Why, you brought me, of course, Martie," he said unsmilingly, as if
any other supposition would have been absurd. He had not spoken before;
she knew now that she had hungered for his rather deep, ready voice.
Her colour came up, her heart gave a curious twist, and she dropped her
eyes.

"Dryden and I have been batching it together in New York," said Dean
Silver. "My wife's been here since April with her mother and our kid.
When I came on, I got Dryden here to come, too. They want me to take a
long sea trip: I hope you'll help me persuade him to come, too. He's
trying to double-cross me on it, I think. He said he'd come as far as
California, and then see how things looked. So we shipped the car last
month, and left New York a week ago to-day."

"Well, Monroe is honoured," Martie smiled, amused, fluttered, a little
confused by this open recognition of John's feeling. "But now that
you're here, I don't know quite what to do with you!"

"There's a hotel?" asked the novelist.

"Oh, it's not that. I'm only anxious to make the most of you," said
Martie. "We've more than enough room at our house! But, like poor Fanny
Squeers, I do so palpitate!"

"Palpitate away!" said Dean Silver. "We're in your hands. You can send
us off right now, or let us take you to dinner somewhere, or dire