And she went. She went hurriedly, a little noisily. She shut one door, and another; then, out on the piazza, she came face to face with Keith Burton.
"Dorothy, oh, Dorothy—I heard!"
And then it was well, indeed, that the Japanese screen on the front piazza was down, for Keith stood with his arms outstretched, and Dorothy, with an ineffably contented little indrawn breath, walked straight into them. And with that light on his face, she would have walked into them had he been standing in the middle of the sidewalk outside.
[Illustration: IT WAS WELL THAT THE JAPANESE SCREEN ON THE FRONT
PIAZZA WAS DOWN]
To Dorothy at that moment nobody in all the world counted for a feather's weight except the man who was holding her close, with his lips to hers.
Later, a little later, when they sat side by side on the piazza settee, and when coherence and logic had become attributes to their conversation, Keith sighed, with a little catch in his voice:
"The only thing I regret about this—all this—the only thing that makes me feel cheap and mean, is that I've won where dad lost out. Poor old dad!"
There was the briefest of pauses, then a small, subdued voice said:
"I—I suspect, Keith, confession is good for the soul."
"Well?" he demanded in evident mystification.