then he wondered at, laughed at, his heat. What did it matter? An ant
pilfering from another ant and a sparrow stealing the crumb found by
another sparrow--a man robbing another man--all part of the universal
scheme. Only a narrow-minded ignoramus would get himself wrought up over
it; a philosopher would laugh--and take what he needed or happened to
fancy.

The door opened. Miss Hallowell entered, a small and demure hat upon her
masses of thick fair hair arranged by anything but unskillful fingers.
"You wished to see me?" came in the quiet little voice, sweet and frank
and shy.

He roused himself from pretended abstraction.

"Oh--it's you?" he said pleasantly. "They said you were out."

"I was going to lunch. But if you've anything for me to do, I'll be glad
to stay."

"No--no. I simply wished to say that if Miss Burroughs wished to make an
arrangement with you, we'd help you about carrying out your part of it."

She was pale--so pale that it brought out strongly the smooth dead-white
purity of her skin. Her small features wore an expression of pride, of
haughtiness even. And in the eyes that regarded him steadily there shone
a cold light--the light of a proud and lonely soul that repels intrusion
even as the Polar fastnesses push back without effort assault upon their
solitudes. "We made no arrangement," said she.

"You are not more than eighteen, are you?" inquired he abruptly.