He offered her his hand, and she put hers in his for an instant, but
withdrew it without returning his pressure, and he went away, sorely
perplexed and bitterly disappointed.

He would have been still more puzzled if he had been told that not only
had Madeline not forgotten about what had happened at the picnic, but
had, in fact, thought of scarcely anything else during his call. It was
that which made her so hard with him, that lent such acid to her tone and
such cold aversion to her whole manner. As he went from the house, she
stood looking after him through the parlour window, murmuring to
herself--.

"Thank Heaven, I'm not engaged to him. How could I think I would ever
marry him? Oh, if a girl only knew!"

Henry could not rest until he had seen her again, and found out whether
her coldness was a mere freak of coquetry, or something more. One evening
when, thanks to the long twilight, it was not yet dark, he called again.
She came to the door with hat and gloves on. Was she going out? he asked.
She admitted that she had been on the point of going across the street to
make a call which had been too long delayed, but wouldn't he come in. No,
he would not detain her; he would call again. But he lingered a moment on
the steps while, standing on the threshold, she played with a button of a
glove. Suddenly he raised his eyes and regarded her in a quite particular
manner. She was suddenly absorbed with her glove, but he fancied that her
cheek slightly flushed. Just at the moment when he was calculating that
she could no longer well avoid looking up, she exclaimed--

"Dear me, how vexatious! there goes another of those buttons. I shall
have to sew it on again before I go," and she looked at him with a