d," he said, catching up the hand he had dropped and
giving it a tighter grip than before, "this is a pleasure. How it
brings back our college days! We must have a glass of wine in memory of
the good old times. Come!"

And he moved toward the table. With an impulse she could not restrain,
Blanche drew back toward the door, pulling strongly on Whitford's arm:

"Come, Ellis; I am faint with the heat of this room. Take me out,
please."

Whitford looked into her face, and saw that it had grown suddenly pale.
If his perceptions had not been obscured by drink, he would have taken
her out instantly. But his mind was not clear.

"Just a moment, until I can get you a glass of wine," he said, turning
hastily from her. Lovering was filling three glasses as he reached the
table. Seizing one of them, he went back quickly to Blanche; but she
waved her hand, saying: "No, no, Ellis; it isn't wine that I need, only
cooler air."

"Don't be foolish," replied Whitford, with visible impatience. "Take a
few sips of wine, and you will feel better."

Lovering, with a glass in each hand, now joined them. He saw the change
in Blanche's face, and having already observed the exhilarated
condition of Whitford, understood its meaning. Handing the latter one
of the glasses, he said:

"Here's to your good health, Miss Birtwell, and to yours, Ellis,"
drinking as he spoke. Whitford drained his glass, but Blanche did not
so much as wet her lips. Her face had grown paler.

"If you do not take me out, I must go alone," she said, in a voice that
made itself felt. There was in it a quiver of pain and a pulse of
indignation.

Lovering lost nothing of this. As his college friend made his way from
the room with Blanche on his arm, he stood for a moment in an attitude
of deep thought, then nodded two or three times and said to himself:

"That's how the land lies. Wine in and wit out, and Blanche troubled
about it already. Engaged, they say. All right. But glass is sharp, and
love's fetters are made of silk. Will the edge be duller if the glass
is filled with wine? I trow not."

And a gleam of satisfaction lit up the young man's face.

With an effort strong and self-controlling for one so young, Blanche
Birtwell laid her hand upon her troubled heart as soon as she was out
of the supper-room, and tried to still its agitation. The color came
back to her cheeks and some of the lost brightness to her eyes, but she
was not long in discovering that the g