"My note," Allison was saying. "You got it, didn't you?"
"Yes. It came while I was at luncheon to-day."
It flashed upon him for an instant that the reality was disappointing, that this was not all as he had dreamed it would be, but pride bade him conceal his disappointment as best he could.
"You were hurt," he said, tenderly. "I'm so sorry."
"Yes. I was hurt quite a good deal."
"But you're all right now, and I'm so glad!"
"Thank you," she answered, listlessly.
Her eyes roved about the room, observing every detail of furniture and ornament. It was old-fashioned, and in a way queer, she thought. She was glad that she would never have to live there.
Allison watched her eagerly. Like a wayfarer in the desert thirsting for water, he longed for her tenderness; for one unsought kiss, even in farewell. His pride sustained him no longer. "Dear," he pleaded, like the veriest beggar; "won't you kiss me just once?"
Isabel hesitated. "It isn't proper," she murmured, "now that we are no longer engaged. I'm sorry you got hurt," she added, as an afterthought.