of a friendly turn of mind. He
waited patiently until one day a letter came to his office--not his
house--addressed, "Frank Algernon Cowperwood, Personal." It was written
in a small, neat, careful hand, almost printed.

I don't know how to thank you for your wonderful present. I didn't
mean you should give them to me, and I know you sent them. I shall
keep them with pleasure and wear them with delight. It was so nice of
you to do this.

STEPHANIE PLATOW.

Cowperwood studied the handwriting, the paper, the phraseology. For a
girl of only a little over twenty this was wise and reserved and
tactful. She might have written to him at his residence. He gave her
the benefit of a week's time, and then found her in his own home one
Sunday afternoon. Aileen had gone calling, and Stephanie was
pretending to await her return.

"It's nice to see you there in that window," he said. "You fit your
background perfectly."

"Do I?" The black-brown eyes burned soulfully. The panneling back of
her was of dark oak, burnished by the rays of an afternoon winter sun.

Stephanie Platow had dressed for this opportunity. Her full, rich,
short black hair was caught by a childish band of blood-red ribbon,
holding it low over her temples and ears. Her lithe body, so
harmonious in its graven roundness, was clad in an apple-green bodice,
and a black skirt with gussets of red about the hem; her smooth arms,
from the elbows down, were bare. On one wrist was the jade bracelet he
had given her. Her stockings were apple-green silk, and, despite the
chill of the day, her feet were shod in enticingly low slippers with
brass buckles.

Cowperwood retired to the hall to hang up his overcoat and came back
smiling.

"Isn't Mrs. Cowperwood about?"

"The butler says she's out calling, but I thought I'd wait a little
while, anyhow. She may come back."

She turned up a dark, smiling face to him, with languishing,
inscrutable eyes, and he recognized the artist at last, full and clear.

"I see you like my bracelet, don't you?"

"It's beautiful," she replied, looking down and surveying it dreamily.
"I don't always wear it. I carry it in my muff. I've just put it on
for a little while. I carry them all with me always. I love them so.
I like to feel them."

She opened a small chamois bag beside her--lying with her handkerchief
and a sketch-book which she always carried--and took out the ear-rings