“Why, Berenice!” he said, extending a cordial hand.
“When did you arrive in town? Whatever brings you here?” He had once tried to make her promise that if ever her feeling toward him changed she would let him know of it in some way. And here she was to-night—on what errand? He noted her costume of brown silk and velvet—how well it seemed to suggest her cat-like grace!
“You bring me here,” she replied, with an indefinable something in her voice which was at once a challenge and a confession. “I thought from what I had just been reading that you might really need me now.”
“You mean—?” he inquired, looking at her with vivid eyes. There he paused.
“That I have made up my mind. Besides, I ought to pay some time.”
“Berenice!” he exclaimed, reproachfully.
“No, I don’t mean that, either,” she replied. “I am sorry now. I think I understand you better. Besides,” she added, with a sudden gaiety that had a touch of self-consolation in it, “I want to.”
“Berenice! Truly?”
“Can’t you tell?” she queried.
“Well, then,” he smiled, holding out his hands; and, to his amazement, she came forward.