Will checked himself on an unpleasant thought. Was _his_ vanity, in
truth, unconcerned in this story? Why, then, had he been conscious
of a sub-emotion, quite unavowable, which contradicted his indignant
sympathy during that talk last night in the street? If the lover's
jealousy were as ridiculous as he pretended, why did he feel what
now he could confess to himself was an unworthy titillation, when
Franks seemed to accuse him of some part in the girl's disloyalty?
Vanity, that, sure enough; vanity of a very weak and futile kind. He
would stamp the last traces of it out of his being. Happily it was
but vanity, and no deeper feeling. Of this he was assured by the
reposeful sigh with which he turned his head upon the pillow,
drowsing to oblivion.

One unbroken sleep brought him to sunrise; a golden glimmer upon the
blind in his return to consciousness told him that the rain was
over, and tempted him to look forth. What he saw was decisive; with
such a sky as that gleaming over the summer world, who could lie in
bed? Will always dressed as if in a fury; seconds sufficed him for
details of the toilet, which, had he spent minutes over them, would
have fretted his nerves intolerably. His bath was one wild welter--
not even the ceiling being safe from splashes; he clad himself in a
brief series of plunges; his shaving might have earned the applause
of an assembly gathered to behold feats of swift dexterity. Quietly
he descended the stairs, and found the house-door already open; this
might only mean that the servant was already up, but he suspected
that the early riser was Jane. So it proved; he walked toward the
kitchen garden, and there stood his sister, the sun making her face
rosy.

"Come and help to pick scarlet runners," was her greeting, as he