more of it than any one might see from the public road. When he
rose to take his leave he said:

"How would it do if I motored out Sunday and showed your house
to Miss Proctor? Sunday is the only day she has off, and if it would not
inconvenience you--"

The tender heart of Cochran leaped in wild tumult; he could not
conceal his delight, nor did he attempt to do so; and his expression
made it entirely unnecessary for him to assure Griswold that such a
visit would be entirely welcome and that they might count on finding
him at home. As though it were an afterthought, Griswold halted at
the door and said:

"I believe you are already acquainted with Miss Proctor."

Cochran, conscious of five years of devotion, found that he was
blushing, and longed to strangle himself. Nor was the blush lost
upon Griswold.

"I'm sorry," said Cochran, "but I've not had that honor. On the
stage, of course--"

He shrugged the broad shoulders deprecatingly, as though to suggest
that not to know Miss Proctor as an artist argues oneself unknown.

Griswold pretended to be puzzled. As though endeavoring to recall
a past conversation he frowned.

"But Aline," he said, "told me she had met you-met you at Bar