"It would be dangerous to go to New Orleans now, I suppose?"
"October or November would be better."
Again she looked at him very earnestly, then stretched out her little hand.
"Good-bye, Russell. I wish I could do something to help you, to make you less sorrowful."
He held the slight waxen fingers, and his mouth trembled as he answered—
"Thank you, Miss Huntingdon. I am not sorrowful, but my path in life is not quite so flowery as yours."
"I wish you would not call me 'Miss Huntingdon' in that stiff, far-off way, as if we were not friends. Or maybe it is a hint that you desire me to address you as Mr. Aubrey. It sounds strange, unnatural, to say anything but Russell."
She gathered up her books, took the gloves, and went slowly homeward, and Russell returned to his desk with a light in his eyes which, for the remainder of the day, nothing could quench. As Irene ascended the long hill on which Mr. Huntingdon's residence stood, she saw her father's buggy at the door, and as she approached the steps, he came out, drawing on his gloves.
"You are late, Irene. What kept you?"
"I have been shopping a little. Are you going to ride? Take me with you."