“And you’d hate me!”
“Cicely! Look at me, dear! I want you to——”
Soft footfalls reached them. The pale youth was approaching, his arms laden with books. Ethan bit his lip and fell silent.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Hoyt, but would you mind giving me——”
Ethan stepped toward him.
“Here,” he said hurriedly, “here’s just what you’re after. It’s no trouble at all.” He forced the “Love Sonnets from the Portuguese,” into the youth’s hands and turned him gently but firmly away from the counter. The youth looked from the book to Ethan.
“How—how did you know?” he stammered resentfully.
“Never mind how, my boy. You’ve got it. Run along.”
After a moment of indecision, of many silent looks of inquiry and dark suspicion, the youth trod softly away again. Ethan looked at Cicely and they smiled together. Then she sank into her chair at the desk and laughed helplessly, and cried a little, too. And Ethan said no word until she had pressed the handkerchief to her eyes and turned toward him again. Then,