sked, almost gaily.

"If it is necessary to have a reason--that was one."

"To talk to me about Miss Gaynor?"

"To tell you how she talks about you."

"That will be very interesting--especially if you have seen her since
her second visit to me."

"Her second visit?" Thursdale pushed his chair back with a start and
moved to another. "She came to see you again?"

"This morning, yes--by appointment."

He continued to look at her blankly. "You sent for her?"

"I didn't have to--she wrote and asked me last night. But no doubt you
have seen her since."

Thursdale sat silent. He was trying to separate his words from his
thoughts, but they still clung together inextricably. "I saw her off
just now at the station."

"And she didn't tell you that she had been here again?"

"There was hardly time, I suppose--there were people about--" he
floundered.

"Ah, she'll write, then."

He regained his composure. "Of course she'll write: very often, I hope.
You know I'm absurdly in love," he cried audaciously.

She tilted her head back, looking up at him as he leaned against the
chimney-piece. He had leaned there so often that the attitude touched a
pulse which set up a throbbing in her throat. "Oh, my poor Thursdale!"
she murmured.

"I suppose it's rather ridiculous," he owned; and as she remained
silent, he added, with a sudden break--"Or have you another reason for
pitying me?"

Her answer was another question. "Have you been back to your rooms
since you left her?"

"Since I left her at the station? I came straight here."

"Ah, yes--you _could:_ there was no reason--" Her words passed into a
silent musing.

Thursdale moved nervously nearer. "You said you had something to tell
me?"

"Perhaps I had better let her do so. There may be a letter at your
rooms."

"A letter? What do you mean? A letter from _her?_ What has happened?"

His paleness shook her, and she raised a hand of reassurance. "Nothing
has happened--perhaps that is just the worst of it. You always _hated_,
you know," she added incoherently, "to have things happen: you never
would let them."

"And now--?"

"Well, that was what she came here for: I supposed you had guessed. To
know if anything had happened."

"Had happened?" He gazed at her slowly. "Between you and me?" he said
with a rush of light.

The words were so much cruder than any that had ever passed between
them that the color rose to her face; but she held his startled gaze.

"You