It was at that very moment that Norman Mann put down his Sismondi, and
looked from his window also.



CHAPTER IV.


Mae met Mr. Mann at the breakfast table the next morning without the
least embarrassment. Indeed, the little flutter in her talk could easily
be attributed to unusually high spirits and an excited and pleased
fancy. That was how Norman Mann translated it, of course. Really, the
flutter was a genuine stirring of her heart with inquietude, timidity
and semi-repentance; but Mae couldn't say this, and it's only what one
says out that can be reckoned on in this world. So Norman Mann, who saw
only the bright cheeks and eyes and restless quickening of an eager girl
and did not see the palpitating feminine heart inside, was displeased
and half-cold.

Could any one be long cold to Mae Madden? She believed not. She was
quite accustomed to lightning-like white heats of anger in those with
whom she came in contact, but coldness was out of her line. Still
she met the occasion well. "Shall I give you some coffee?" she asked,
pleasantly. "We breakfast all alone, until Eric appears. Mrs. Jerrold is
not well, and Edith and Albert are off for Frascati."

"Poor child; how much alone she is," he thought to himself.

"I understand we all go to the play tonight?" queried Mae.