"But I don't want to win independently of you. If I did, nothing could be easier."
"Then why not do it?"
He tossed up his hand with one of his fatalistic Latin gestures, drawing the attention of the passers-by to the man and woman talking so earnestly. For this reason, and because she was losing her self-command, she hastened to take leave of him.
Arrived at home, it gave her no comfort to find Charles Conquest—the most spick and span of middle-aged New-Yorkers—waiting in the drawing-room.
"I thought you might come in," he explained, "so I stayed. I have to get your signature to the papers about that property in Montreal. I've fixed the thing up and we'll sell."
"You said you'd send the papers—"
"That sounds as if you weren't glad to see me," he laughed, "but I'll ignore the discourtesy. Here," he added, unfolding the documents, "you put your name there—and there—near the L.S."
She carried the papers to her desk, and sat down to write. Conquest took the liberty of old friendship to stroll about the room, with his hands behind him, humming a little tune.
"Well," he said suddenly, "has he come back?"
He had not approached the subject, beyond alluding to it covertly, since the day she had confided to him the confused story of her hopes. She blotted her signature carefully thinking out her reply.