e others, or Cousin Hetty will
be telling her old-time stories before we arrive," she answered, moving
towards the door.

She felt her pulse knocking loud and swift. Strange how a casual
interchange of words with him would excite and agitate her. But it had
been more than that. Everything _was_, with him.

He gave the sidewise toss of his head, which had come to be so familiar
to her, as though he were tossing a lock of hair from his forehead, but
he said nothing more, following her down the long hall in silence.

It was as though she had physically felt the steel of his blade slide
gratingly once more down from her parry. Her mental attitude had been so
entirely that of a fencer, on the alert, watchfully defensive against
the quick-flashing attack of the opponent, that she had an instant's
absurd fear of letting him walk behind her, as though she might feel a
thrust in the back. "How ridiculous of me!" she told herself with an
inward laugh of genuine amusement. "Women are as bad as fox-terriers
for inventing exciting occasions out of nothing at all."

Then in a gust of deep anger, instantly come, instantly gone, "Why do I
tolerate this for a moment? I was perfectly all right before. Why don't
I simply send him about his business, as I would any other bold
meddler?"

But after this, with an abrupt shift to another plane, "That would be
acting preposterously, like a silly, self-consciously virtuous matron.
What earthly difference does it make to me what a casual visitor to our
town says or does to amuse himself in his casual stay, that may end at
any moment? And how scarifyingly he would laugh at me, if he knew what
comic relics of old prudish reflexes are stirred up by the contact with
his mere human livingness. Heavens! How he would laugh to know me
capable of being so 'guindee,' so personal, fearing like any school-girl
a flirtation in any man's conversation. He must never see a trace of
that. No matter how startled I ever am, he mustn't see anything but a
smooth, amused surface. It would be intolerable to have him laugh at
me."

Her hand was on the latch, when a deep, muffled murmur from the depths
admonished her, "Personal vanity . . . that's what's at the bottom of all
that you are telling yourself. It is a vain woman speaking, and fearing
a wound to her vanity."

She resented this, pushed it back, and clicked the latch up firmly,
stepping out into the transparent gold of the late-afternoon sunshine.
She t