his tormenting fires, and leaving him the peace of eternal cold."

"Really," she cried, "I have never heard anything as fine as that
since I used to write compositions at boarding-school."

"It may be part of one of mine!" he replied. "We forget ourselves,
you know, and then we think we are original."

"Second childhood," she suggested. "Are you really coming in?"

"I am, madam," he replied. "And guided by your suggestion, I come
as a second child."

When he had reached the top step, he laid his hat and cane on the
porch and took her hands in his--pressing them abstemiously.

"Excuse me if I do not press harder," he said, lowering his voice
as though he fancied they might be overheard. "I know you are
sensitive in these little matters; but while I dislike to appear
lukewarm, really, you know it is too late to be ardent," and he
looked at her ardently.

She twisted her fingers out of his with coy shame.

"What an old fox," she repeated gayly.

"Well, you know what goes with the fox--the foxess, or the foxina."

She had placed his chair not quite beside hers yet designedly near,
where the light of the chandelier in the hall would fall out upon