had enough to last me through the summer, I--I came."

"You've been at work?"

She dropped her eyes and flushed. And her fingers played more nervously
with her ribbons.

"You needn't treat me as a child any longer," she said at last in a low
voice; "I'm eighteen now and--well, I'm not a child."

Again there was a long pause. Howard, watching her downcast face, saw her
steadying her expression to meet his eyes. When she looked, it was straight
at him--appeal but also defiance.

"I don't ask anything of you," she said, "we are both free. And I wanted to
see you. I was sick of all those others--up there. I've never
had--had--this out of my mind. And I've come. And I can see you sometimes.
I won't be in the way."

Howard went over to the window and stared out into the lights and shadows
of the leafy Square. When he turned again she had lighted and was smoking
one of his cigarettes.

"Well," he said smiling down at her, "Why not? Put on a street gown and
we'll go out and get supper and talk it over."

She sprang up, her face alight. She was almost running toward the door.
Midway she stopped, turned and came slowly back. She put one of her arms
upon his shoulder--a slender, cool, smooth, white arm with the lace of the
wide sleeve slipping away from it. She turned her face up until her mouth,