"Oh, not _that_," Christopher told himself, "she'd never grow
less--never anything less than she is--if she could once--care--"

For he did not know whether Anne cared or not. He might guess as he
pleased--but there had not been a word between them.

Once more the thought flashed, "If I were a gipsy to follow the road--"

As his train sped through the countryside, he became aware of flaming
bill-boards--a circus was showing in the towns--the fences fairly blazed
with golden chariots, wild beasts, cheap gods and goddesses, clowns in
frilled collars and peaked hats. He remembered a glorious day that he
had spent as a boy!

"I'll take Anne," was his sudden decision.

He laughed to himself, and spent the rest of the way in seeing her at
it. They would drink pink lemonade, and there would be pop-corn
balls--the entrancing smell of sawdust--the beat of the band. He hoped
there would be a tom-tom, and some of the dark people from the Far East.

He reached his destination at seven o'clock. Dunbar met him at the
station. Anne sat with her husband, and Jeanette was in the back seat.
Christopher had, therefore, a side view of Anne as she turned a little
that she might talk to him. The glint of her bright hair under her gray
sports hat, the light of welcome in her eyes--!

"I am going to take you to the circus to-morrow. Ridgeley, you'll go
too?"