ough to keep her from the telephone
summons that at least gave her the sound of his voice, then the world
began to be cognizant that something was in the air.

The very maids at Mrs. Melrose's house knew that Miss Sheridan was never
available any more, never to be traced to the club, to young Mrs.
Liggett's, or to Mrs. von Behrens's house, with a telephone message or
an urgent letter. Leslie knew that Norma hated girls' luncheons; Annie
asked Hendrick idly why he supposed the child was always taking long
walks--or saying that she took long walks--and Hendrick, later
speculating himself as to the inaccessibility of Chris, was perhaps the
first in the group to suspect the truth.

A quite accidental and innocent hint from Annie overwhelmed Norma with
shame and terror, and she and Chris, in earnest consultation, decided
that they must be more discreet. But this was slow and difficult work,
after the radiant first plunge into danger. Despite their utmost
resolution, Chris would find her out, Norma would meet him halfway, and
even under Leslie's very eyes, or in old Mrs. Melrose's actual presence,
the telephone message, or the quicker signals of eyes and smile, would
forge the bond afresh.

Even when Norma really did start off heroically upon a bracing winter
walk, determined to shake off, in solitude and exercise, the constant
hunger for his presence, torturing possibilities would swarm into her
mind, and weaken her almost while she thought them banished. She could
catch him at his club; she might have just five minutes of him did she
choose to telephone.

Perhaps she would resist the temptation, and go home nervous,
high-strung, excitable--the evening stretching endlessly before
her--without him. Aunt Annie and Hendrick coming, Leslie and Acton
coming, the prospect of the decorous family dinner would drive her
almost to madness. She would dress in a feverish dream, answer old Mrs.
Melrose absently or impatiently, speculating all the time about him.
Where was he? When would they meet again?

And then perhaps Leslie would casually remark that Chris had said he
would join them for coffee, or Joseph would summon her gravely to the
telephone. Then Norma began to live again, the effect of the lonely walk
and the heroic resolutions swept away, nothing--nothing was in the world
but the sound of that reassuring voice, or the prospect of that ring at
the bell, and that step in the hall.

So matters went on for several weeks, b