ng at him.
"Next time you shall come to an earlier party. You would enjoy
that." And I laughed, thinking of the first batch of relations we
had entertained.

"I will come whenever you ask me," he said, quite simply.

"No. You know I would never ask you again, if I could help it. Oh,
you were so kind, but it--" I stopped. I did not know how to say what
I meant. I had better not have said so much.

"I don't want you to have that feeling. It amuses me to come,
Comtesse, only you feed one too well. Do you remember how I drank
everything I could get hold of, to please you?"

"You were ridiculous!" And I laughed.

"I thought I was heroic." Then, in another voice: "I think you must
have that boudoir altered a little, you know, before long. I can't say
I found your sofa comfortable."

"Not like this." And I lay back luxuriously.

"I generally choose things with a reason, if I can."

"That sounds like one of grandmamma's speeches." Then I stupidly
blushed, remembering, apropos of what she had said, almost the same
thing. It was when she accepted Mrs. Gurrage's invitation to the ball,
where she calculated I should meet Antony. That was before she had the
fainting-fit. I stared into the fire. What would have happened by now,
if she could have carried out that plan--the "suitable and happy"
arrangement of my future!

"Comtesse, why do you stop suddenly and blush, and then stare into the
fire? Your grandmother was not, I am sure, in the habit of saying such
startling things as to cause you such emotions."

I looked up at him. I suppose my eyes were troubled, for he said, so
gently:

"Dear little girl, I won't tease you. Tell me, have you read any more
books on philosophy lately?"

I drank the last sip of my tea, and held out my cup. It was nice tea.

"No, I have not had time to read anything. There, you can take my
cup. You have such pretty things here. Everything is suitable, and it
gives me pleasure. I don't feel philosophical; I feel genuine human
enjoyment."

"That is good to know. Well, we won't be philosophical, then, we will
be humanly happy," and he sat down beside me.

I took up, idly, a little book that was lying on a table near, because
my silly heart had begun to beat again, like Lydia Languish or any
vaporish young lady in an early romance. I looked at the title and
Antony looked at me. I read it over without taking in the sense, and
then the name arrested my attention.

"_A Digit of the Moon_," I