close to the table, on which a number of books were lying.

"I want to show you Dore's illustrations of Don Quixote;" and
Blanche opened a large folio volume.

Whitford had grown more passive. He was having a confused impression
that all was not just right with him, and that it was better to be
in the library looking over books and pictures with Blanche than in
the crowded parlors, where there was so much to excite his gayer
feelings. So he gave himself up to the will of his betrothed, and
tried to feel an interest in the pictures she seemed to admire so
much.

They had been so engaged for over twenty minutes, Whitford beginning
to grow dull and heavy as the exhilaration of wine died out, and
less responsive to the efforts made by Blanche to keep him
interested, when Lovering came into the library, and, seeing them,
said, with a spur of banter in his voice:

"Come, come, this will never do! You're a fine fellow, Whitford, and
I don't wonder that Miss Birtwell tolerates you, but monopoly is not
the word to-night. I claim the privilege of a guest and a word or
two with our fair hostess."

And he held out his arm to Blanche, who had risen from the table.
She could do no less than take it. He drew her from the room. As
they passed out of the door Blanche cast a look back at Whitford.
Those who saw it were struck by its deep concern.

"Confound his impudence!" ejaculated Ellis Whitford as he saw