"Indeed I will, Colette, and--"

"Don't look so serious, John. Until that dreadful evening, the last time
you called, you always left your pulpit punctilio behind you when you
came here."

"Colette!" he began in protest.

But she perversely refused to fall in with his serious vein. Chattering
gayly yet half-defiantly, on her face the while a baffling smile, partly
tender, partly amused, and wholly coquettish--the smile that maddened
and yet entranced him--she brought the mask of reserve to his face and
man. At such times he never succeeded in remembering that she was but
little more than a child, heart-free, capricious, and wilful. Despairing
of changing her mood to the serious one that he loved yet so seldom
evoked, he arose and bade her good-night.

When he was in the hall she softly called him back, meeting him with a
half-penitent look in her eyes, which had suddenly become gazelle-like.

"You may preach to me again some time, John. There are moments when I
believe I like it, because no other man dares to do it" "Dares?" he
queried with a smile.

"Yes; dares. They all fear to offend. And you, John, you fear nothing!"

"Yes, I do," he answered gravely, as he looked down upon her. "There is
one thing I fear that makes me tremble, Colette."

But her mood had again changed, and with a mischievous, elusive smile