A week passed on the wings of magic.
Every day at four o'clock the car was waiting at her door. The drab interior of the school-room had lost its terror. No annoyance could break the spell that reigned within. Her patience was inexhaustible, her temper serene.
Walking with swift step down the Avenue to her home she wondered vaguely how she could have been lonely in all the music and the wonder of New York's marvelous life. The windows of the stores were already crowded with Christmas cheer, and busy thousands passed through their doors. Each man or woman was a swift messenger of love. Somewhere in the shadows of the city's labyrinth a human heart would beat with quickened joy for every step that pressed about these crowded counters. Love had given new eyes to see, new ears to hear and a new heart to feel the joys and sorrows of life.
She hadn't given her consent yet. She was still asking her silly heart to be sure of herself. Of her lover, the depth and tenderness, the strength and madness of his love, there could be no doubt. Each day he had given new tokens.
For Saturday afternoon she had told him not to bring the car.
When they reached Fifth Avenue, across the Square, he stopped abruptly and faced her with a curious, uneasy look:
“Say, tell me why you wanted to walk?”
“I had a good reason,” she said evasively.
“Yes, but why? It's a sin to lay that car up a day like this. Look here——”
He stopped and tried to gulp down his fears.