"The—the twenty-sixth, I believe. I've got aunty's consent—I go with the Archibalds to San Francisco."
"And this is—?"
"The twentieth."
For some time after that they wove their way along the sweeping Parkroads without speaking, and when they did begin to talk to one another again, the subject was a different one and Mr. van Soop was more cheerful. The tea hour was a fairly merry one. But when he left Sammy, an hour later, at her aunt's door, he took off his big glove, and grew a little white, and held out his hand to her and said:
"I won't see you again, Sammy. I've been thinking it over. You're right; it's all my own fault. I was very wrong to attempt to persuade you. But I won't see you again. Good-by."
"Why—!" began Sammy, in astonishment; then she looked down and stammered, "Oh—," and finally she put her little hand in his and said simply:
"Good-by."
Therefore it was a surprise to Mr. van Soop to find himself entering Mrs. Bond's library just twenty-four hours later, and grasping the hands of the slender young woman who rose from a chair by the fire.
"Sammy! You sent for me?"
Sammy looked very young in a little velvet gown with a skirt short enough to show the big bows on her slippers. Her eyes had a childishly bewildered expression.