ss, it was he who broke it. The evening grew chilly at last.
Somewhere in the town a clock struck ten. He felt it would be indiscreet
to stay longer.

"I'll make a try for it, Miss Guion," he said, when he had got on his
feet to go away. "Since you want me to see Colonel Ashley, I will."

"They always say that one man has such influence on another," she said,
rising, too--"and you see things so clearly and have such a lot of
common sense.... I'll walk down to the gate with you.... I'm tired with
sitting still."

He offered his hand to help her in descending the portico steps. Though
there was no need for her to take it, she did so. The white cloak,
loosely gathered in one hand in front, trailed behind her. He thought
her very spirit-like and ethereal.

At the foot of the steps his heart gave a great bound; he went hot and
cold. It seemed to him--he was sure--he could have sworn--that her hand
rested in his a perceptible instant longer than there was any need for.

A moment later he was scoffing at the miracle. It was a mistake on his
part, or an accident on hers. It was the mocking of his own desire, the
illusion of his feverish, overstrained senses. It was a restorative to
say to himself: "Don't be a damned fool."

And yet they walked to the gate almost in silence. It was a silence
without embarrassment, like that which had preceded it. It had some of
the qualities of the silence which goes with long-established
companionships. He spoke but once, to remind her, protectingly, that the
grass was damp, and to draw her--almost tactually--to the graveled path.

They came to the gate, but he did not immediately say good night.

"I wish you could throw the burden of the whole thing on me, Miss
Guion," he ventured, wistfully, "and just take it easy."

She looked away from him, over the sprinkling of lights that showed the
town. "If I could do it with any one, it would be with you--now."

There was an inflection on the _now_ which again gave him strange and
sudden thrills, as though some extraordinary chemical agent had been
infused into his blood. All kinds of capitulations were implied in
it--changes of heart and mind and attitude--changes that had come about
imperceptibly, and for reasons which he, and perhaps she, could not have
followed. He felt the upleaping of great joy. It was joy so intense that
it made him tactful, temperate. It also made him want to rush away and
be alone.

"I'll make that do for the pres