"My dear Madge, where have you been?" cried Miss Gerald.
The poet smiled.
"It is April, Miss Gerald," he said. "We must not be too severe on the young people. As you know, this is proverbially an irresponsible, changeable, witch of a month."
"We must hurry home, Madge," said Miss Gerald, holding out a graceful, though strong, hand to the poet.
He clasped it a moment.
"That was an interesting chat we had, Miss Gerald. I shall remember it. Come, Tommy, it is time that we also returned."
They walked slowly home together, Tommy chattering away freely of the day's adventures. The poet seemed more than usually abstracted. In a pause of Tommy's babbling, the name on the fly leaf of a book came back to him. He had seen it, in the sunshine, by the stream.
"Mollie Gerald," he murmured.
"I beg your pardon," said Tommy, politely.
"Nothing," snapped the poet.