Provoked, he would have continued the chatter. "I have confessed," he
persisted. "You know everything of material interest about me. And
yourself?"

"I am merely Dorothy Calendar," she answered.

"Nothing more?" He laughed.

"That is all, if you please, for the present."

"I am to content myself with the promise of the future?"

"The future," she told him seriously, "is to-morrow; and to-morrow ..." She
moved restlessly in her chair, eyes and lips pathetic in their distress.
"Please, we will go now, if you are ready."

"I am quite ready, Miss Calendar."

He rose. A waiter brought the girl's cloak and put it in Kirkwood's hands.
He held it until, smoothing the wrists of her long white gloves, she stood
up, then placed the garment upon her white young shoulders, troubled by the
indefinable sense of intimacy imparted by the privilege. She permitted
him this personal service! He felt that she trusted him, that out of her
gratitude had grown a simple and almost childish faith in his generosity
and considerateness.

As she turned to go her eyes thanked him with an unfathomable glance. He
was again conscious of that esoteric disturbance in his temples. Puzzled,
hazily analyzing the sensation, he followed her to the lobby.