as very pale. Jerome lifted his hat and
bowed pleasantly as they drove past. Suddenly Harriet laughed out.
Anne did not look back, but her face crimsoned darkly. Was that girl
laughing at her? She trembled with anger and a sharp, hurt feeling.
When she got home that night she sat a long while by her window.

Jerome was gone--and he let Harriet Warren laugh at her and he would
never come back to her. Well, it did not matter, but she had been a
fool. Only it had never occurred to her that Jerome could act so.

"If I'd thought he would I mightn't have been so sharp with him," was
as far as she would let herself go even in thought.

When four weeks had elapsed Jerome came over one Saturday night. He
was fluttered and anxious, but hid it in a masterly manner.

Anne was taken by surprise. She had not thought he would ever come
again, and was off her guard. He had come around the porch corner
abruptly as she stood there in the dusk, and she started very
perceptibly.

"Good evening, Anne," he said, easily and unblushingly.

Anne choked up. She was very angry, or thought she was. Jerome
appeared not to notice her lack of welcome. He sat coolly down in his
old place. His heart was beating like a hammer, but Anne did not know
that.

"I suppose," she said cuttingly, "that you're on your way down to the
bridge. It's almost a pity for you to waste time stopping here at all,
any more than you have of late. No doubt Harriet'll be expecting you."

A gleam of satisfaction flashed over Jerome's face. He looked shrewdly
at Anne, who was not looking at him, but was staring uncompromisingly
out over the poppy beds. A jealous woman always gives herself away. If
Anne had been indifferent she would not have given him that slap in
the face.

"I dunno's she will," he replied coolly. "I didn't say for sure
whether I'd be down tonight or not. It's so long since I had a chat
with you I thought I'd drop in for a spell. But of course if I'm not
wanted I can go where I will be."

Anne could not get back her self-control. Her nerves were "all strung
up," as she would have said. She had a feeling that she was right on
the brink of a "scene," but she could not help herself.

"I guess it doesn't matter much what I want," she said stonily. "At
any rate, it hasn't seemed that way lately. You don't care, of course.
Oh, no! Harriet Warren is all you care about. Well, I wish you joy of
her."

Jerome looked puzzled, or pretended to. In reality he