breath in a sobbing endeavor to blow them into some fitful ardor.
There was a hurried breakfast, and while waiting for the stage the
desultory talk that skims over dangerous topics for fear of getting
into discussions for which there is no time. And with it the
consciousness of things that burn to be said--at least on one side.

"I'm sorry I was cross last night," she murmured once, under her
breath.

And he responded courteously, "Oh, not at all."

But she pressed him. "You know it was only because I--love you so? And
to make a joke of--"

"Of course! Helena, when is that stage due? You don't suppose the
driver misunderstood, and expects to take me on at the Tavern?"

"No, he was told to call here.... Lloyd, it's just the same? You
haven't--changed?"

"Certainly not! I do hope he hasn't forgotten me? It would be
extremely inconvenient."

She turned away and stood looking out of the window into the rain-
sodden garden. Mr. Pryor lighted a cigar. After a while she spoke
again. "You'll come soon? I hope you will come soon! I'll try not to
worry you."

"Of course," he assured her; "but I trust your cook will be well next
time, my dear."