The girl saw him before she reached the table, gave a little gasp of surprise, and halted with one hand carried prettily to her breast.
“Oh!” she said impulsively; “I beg your pardon. I didn’t know there was—— I was looking for a book I thought I——”
She stopped, whelmed with a breath-taking shyness, her eyes, after one quick but condensed encounter with those of Mr. Corliss, falling beneath exquisite lashes. Her voice was one to stir all men: it needs not many words for a supremely beautiful “speaking-voice” to be recognized for what it is; and this girl’s was like herself, hauntingly lovely. The intelligent young man immediately realized that no one who heard it could ever forget it.
“I see,” she faltered, turning to leave the room; “it isn’t here—the book.”
“There’s something else of yours here,” said Corliss.
“Is there?” She paused, hesitating at the door, looking at him over her shoulder uncertainly.
“You dropped this rose.” He lifted the rose from the waste-basket and repeated the bow he had made at the front door. This time it was not altogether wasted.
“I?”
“Yes. You lost it. It belongs to you.”
“Yes—it does. How curious!” she said slowly. “How curious it happened to be there!” She stepped to take it from him, her eyes upon his in charming astonishment. “And how odd that——” She stopped; then said quickly: