3

'Oh,' cried the voice of Cicely—'there you are! How nice of you to come!'

She was standing—for a moment—in the doorway.

White of face, eyes burning, his fist still poised on the piano, he stared at her.

She didn't know! Surely she didn't—not with that bright smile. __

She wore the informal, girlish costume of the moment—neatly fitting dark skirt; simple shirt-waist with the ballooning sleeves that were then necessary; stiff boyish linen collar propping the chin high, and little bow tie; darkish, crisply waving hair brought into the best order possible, parted in the middle and carried around and down over the ears to a knot low on the neck.

'I brought some candy,' he cried fiercely. 'There! On the table!'

She knit her brows for a brief moment. Then opened the box.

'How awfully nice of you... You'll have some?'

'No. I don't eat candy. I was thinking of—I want to get you out—Come on, let's take a walk!'

She smiled a little, around a chocolate. Surely she didn't know!

She had seemed, during her first days in Sunbury, rather timid at times. But there was in this smile more than a touch of healthy self-confidence. No girl, indeed, could find herself making so definite a success as Cicely had made here from her first day without acquiring at least the beginnings of self-confidence. It was a success that had forced Elbow Jenkins and Herb de Casselles to ignore small rebuffs and persist in fighting over her. It permitted her, even in a village where social conformity was the breath of life, to do odd, unexpected things. Such as allowing herself to be interested, frankly, in Henry Calverly.

So she smiled as she nibbled a chocolate.

He said it again, breathlessly:—

'I was thinking of asking you to take a walk.'

'Well'—still that smile—'why don't you?'

But he was still in a daze, and pressed stupidly on.

'It's a fine evening. And the moon'll be coming up.'

'I'll get my sweater,' she said quietly, and went out to the hall.

She was just turning away from the hall closet with the sweater—he, hat and stick in hand, was fighting back the memory of how Senator Watt had marched stiffly to that same closet—when Madame Watt came down the stairs, scowling intently, still breathing hard.

She saw them; came toward them; stood, pursing her lips, finally forcing a sort of smile.

'Oh, howdadoo!' she remarked, toward Henry.

Her black eyes focused pointedly on him. And while he was mumbling a greeting, she broke in on him with this:—'I didn't know you were here. Did you just come?' Henry's eyes lowered. Then, as utter silence fell, the colour surging to his face, he raised them. They met her black, alarmed stare. He felt that he ought to lie about this, lie like a good one. But he didn't know how.

Slowly, all confusion, he shook his head.

During a long moment they held that gaze, the vigorous, strangely interesting woman of wealth and of what must have been a violent past, and the gifted, sensitive youth of twenty. When she turned away, they had a secret.

'We thought of taking a little walk,' said Cicely.

Madame moved briskly away into the back parlour, merely throwing back over her shoulder, in a rather explosive voice: 'Have a good time!'

The remark evidently struck Cicely as somewhat out of character. She even turned, a little distrait, and looked after, her aunt.

Then, as they were passing out the door, Madame's voice boomed after them. She was hurrying back through the hall.

'By the way,' she said, with a frowning, determined manner, 'we are having a little theatre party Saturday night. A few of Cicely's friends. Dinner here at six. Then we go in on the seven-twenty. I know Cicely'll be glad to have you. Informal—don't bother to dress.'

'Oh, yes!' cried Cicely, looking at her aunt.

'I—Im sure I'd be delighted,' said Henry heavily.

Then they went out, and strolled in rather oppressive quiet toward the lake.

There was a summer extravaganza going, at the Auditorium. That must be the theatre. They hadn't meant to ask him, of course. Not at this late hour. It hurt, with a pain that, a day or so back, would have filled Henry's thoughts. But Cicely's smile, as she stood by the table, nibbling a chocolate, the poise of her pretty head—the picture stood out clearly against a background so ugly, so unthinkably vulgar, that it was like a deafening noise in his brain.