They touched hands and sat without speaking. For several moments
they continued the silence, then turned slowly and looked at each
other; then looked slowly and gravely away, as if to an audience
in front of them. They knew how to do it; but probably a critic in
the first row would have concluded that Cora felt it even more
than Valentine Corliss enjoyed it.

"I suppose this is very clandestine," she said, after a deep
breath. "I don't think I care, though."

"I hope you do," he smiled, "so that I could think your coming
means more."

"Then I'll care," she said, and looked at him again.

"You dear!" he exclaimed deliberately.

She bit her lip and looked down, but not before he had seen the
quick dilation of her ardent eyes. "I wanted to be out of doors,"
she said. "I'm afraid there's one thing of yours I don't like, Mr.
Corliss."

"I'll throw it away, then. Tell me."

"Your house. I don't like living in it, very much. I'm sorry you
_can't_ throw it away."

"I'm thinking of doing that very thing," he laughed. "But I'm glad
I found the rose in that queer old waste-basket first."