ocket. But, curiously
enough, the sight of her face only intensified an impression that had
been strong on him during the last part of their walk--the impression
that she was a long way off. It wasn't the familiar contemplative brown
study, either. There was an active eager excitement about it that made
it more beautiful than ever he had seen it before. But it was as if she
were looking at something he couldn't see--listening to words he
couldn't hear.

"Well," he said a little impatiently, "are you going to do it?"

At that the glow of her was turned fairly on him. "Yes," she said, "I'm
going to do it. I suppose I mustn't thank you," she went on, "because
you say it isn't anything you're doing for me. But it is--a great thing
for me--greater than I could tell you. And I won't fail. You needn't be
afraid."

Inexplicably to him (the problem wouldn't have troubled James Randolph)
the very completeness with which she made this acknowledgment--the very
warmth of the hand-clasp with which she bound the bargain, vaguely
disappointed him--left him feeling a little flat and empty over his
victory.

He found his pocketbook and counted out a hundred and twenty dollars,
which he handed over to her. She folded it and put it away in her
wrist-bag. The glow of her hadn't faded, but once more it was turned on
something--or some one--else. It wasn't until he rose a little abruptly
from the marble bench, that she roused herself with a shake of the head,
arose too, and once more faced him.

"You're right about our having to hurry," she said. "Don't you suppose
that some of the department stores on the west side of State Street
would still be open--on account of Christmas, you know?"

"I don't know," he said. "Very likely. But look here!" He pulled out his
watch. "It's after seven already. And rehearsal's at eight-thirty.
You've got to get some dinner, you know."

"Dinner doesn't take long at the place where I go," she reminded him.
"But if I can get one or two things now--I don't mean the
materials--why, I can get a start to-night after the rehearsal's over."

"I don't like it," he said glumly. "Oh, I know, it's a rush job and
you'll have to work at it at all sorts of hours. If only you ... If I
could just ease up a bit on your rehearsals! Only, you see, the sextette
would he lost without you. Look here! There's nothing life or death
about this, you know. You don't want to forget that you've got a limit,
and crowd the late-at-n