"But couldn't we find out some way of doing neither, dear?" went on
Julian, playing with his spoon. "Now suppose I give him a couple of
hours one evening every week? You could spare that, couldn't you?
Say, from eight to ten on Wednesdays?"

"I suppose you'll go if you want to." said Harriet, rising from the
tea-table, and taking a seat sulkily by the window.

"Come, come, we won't say any more about it, if it's so disagreeable
to you," said Julian, going up to her, and coaxing her back to her
place. "You don't feel well to-day, do you? I oughtn't to have left
you this afternoon, but it was difficult to refuse, wasn't it?"

"He had no business to ask you to go. He could see I didn't like
it."

Waymark grew so accustomed to receiving Ida's note each Monday morning,
that when for the first time it failed to conic he was troubled
seriously. It happened, too, that he was able to attach a particular
significance to the omission. When they had last parted, instead of just
pressing her hand as usual, he had raised it to his lips. She frowned
and turned quickly away, saying no word. He had offended her by this
infringement of the conditions of their friendship; for once before,
when he had uttered a word which implied more than she was willing to
allow, Ida had engaged him in the distinct agreement that he should
never do or say anything that approached love-making. As, moreover, it
was distinctly understood that he should never visit her save at times
previously appointed, he could not see her till she chose to write.
After waiting in the vain expectation of some later post bringing news,
he himself wrote, simply asking the cause of her silence. The reply came