to be so precipitate in the matter, had given her something to think
about--and he decided to keep away and let her think. If she saw him
following the usual routine, her thoughts might drop back into routine
channels.

He thrilled at the memory of her touch on his arm, even though the touch
had been a thrusting of her hands in self-defense and her eyes had been
big with fright.

He sat down at his desk and tore the leaf off his pad calendar, starting
his business day as usual. He looked at the disclosed date and his eyes
became humid. It was February 14th, the day of St. Valentine. An idea
came to Mr. Britt. He had been wondering how to approach the question
with Vona without blurting the thing and making a mess of it. He
determined to do something that he had not attempted since he had beaued
Hittie; he set himself to compose a few verses for a valentine--verses
that would pave the way for a formal declaration of his love and his
hopes.

The determination indicated that Mr. Britt was having a severe run of
a second attack of the same malady, and he acknowledged that much to
himself as he sat there and chewed the soggy end of an extinguished
cigar and gazed aloft raptly, seeking rhymes.

He made slow progress; his pen trailed as sluggishly as a tracking
snail--a word at a time. He lost all notion of how the hours were
slipping past.

A man walked in. He was Stickney, a cattle buyer, and a minor
stockholder in the bank. Mr. Britt, his eyes filmy with prolonged