ished that he would; his silence admitted
that he knew of some adequate reason.

"I feel that there is something wrong," she sobbed, "something
terribly wrong."

"Nothing could go wrong between you and me, my darling," he answered. His
tone comforted, his touch was a comfort. Perhaps she was a coward, she
said to herself, but she questioned him no further.

CHAPTER IV

Wayne was not so prompt as Mathilde in making the announcement of their
engagement. He and his mother breakfasted together rather hastily, for
she was going to court that morning to testify in favor of one of her
backsliding inebriates, and Wayne had not found the moment to introduce
his own affairs.

That afternoon he came home earlier than usual; it was not five o'clock.
He passed Dr. Parret's flat on the first floor--Dr. Lily MacComb Parret.
She was a great friend of his, and he felt a decided temptation to go in
and tell her the news first; but reflecting that no one ought to hear it
before his mother, he went on up-stairs. He lived on the fifth floor.

He opened the door of the flat and went into the sitting-room. It was
empty. He lighted the gas, which flared up, squeaking like a bagpipe. The
room was square and crowded. Shelves ran all the way round it, tightly
filled with books. In the center was a large writing-table, littered with
papers, and on each side of the fireplace stood two worn, but
comfortable, arm-chairs, each with a reading-lamp at its side. There was
nothing beautiful in the furniture, and yet the room had its own charm.
The house was a corner house and had once been a single dwelling. The
shape of the room, its woodwork, its doors, its flat, white marble
mantelpiece, belonged to an era of simple taste and good workmanship; but
the greatest charm of the room was the view from the windows, of which it
had four, two that looked east and two south, and gave a glimpse of the
East River and its bridges.

Wayne was not sorry his mother was out. He had begun to dread the
announcement he had to make. At first he had thought only of her keen
interest in his affairs, but later he had come to consider what this
particular piece of news would mean to her. Say what you will, he
thought, to tell your mother of your engagement is a little like casting
off an old love.

Ever since he could remember, he and his mother had lived in the
happiest comradeship. His father, a promising young doctor, had died
within a few years of his mar