peak of Judge Bewick in Denver, where I lived so long. Well, this is
his son, Doctor Thomas Bewick. He's in Florence just for a visit. It's a
wonder, come to think of it, that you haven't heard of his being here.
We've been going everywhere and seeing everything and giving
dinner-parties. Well, never tell me again that news spreads so fast in
Florence! Come on. I want you to know each other. You'll be sure to like
him."

"I don't think I will. I mean that I don't think I will go into the
house with you, Aurora."

"Now, Gerald," she said in a warning voice, at which black clouds of
impending displeasure loomed over the horizon, "this isn't the way to
begin. Don't be odd and trying. I should feel hurt, now truly, if I had
to think your regard for me wasn't equal to doing such a little thing
for me as this. Tom's one of my very best friends, and he's heard us
talk so much of you. He's seen your painting of me. I do want you to
know him, and I want him to know you. Then, too, Gerald dear, and this
is the main reason, I want you to get good and rested, and to take a
little wine before you start for home. Though you say the air is like a
warm bath, your hands are cold, I notice."

Too tired from the emotions of the evening to make any valid resistance,
emptied in fact of all feeling except a flat sort of bewilderment,
Gerald followed, like a little boy in fear of rough-handling from his so
much bigger nurse.

They found Estelle and Tom in the parlor.

"Well, I was wondering what had become of you!" cried Estelle as Aurora
appeared in the doorway, and behind her shoulder the shadowy, unexpected
face of Gerald.

"Tom," said Aurora, "this is my friend Mr. Fane that you've heard us
talk so much about, the painter, you know, who painted that picture of
me up there. And this is Doctor Bewick, Gerald, to whom I am under a
thousand obligations, besides the obligation of his having probably
saved my life out in Denver, not so many years ago, when I was
dangerously ill."

Aurora was luminous with gladness. Aurora was so glad that she had not
the concentration or the decency to attempt to hide it. She did not know
of the flagrant betrayal of her feelings; she was not guarding against
it, because her delight itself absorbed all her powers of thought. She
stood there, a monument unveiled. And all the reason for it that one
could see was that pindling, hollow-eyed young fellow who had entered
the room in her wake.

Those who hav