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 cheeks warm with blushes, her red lips atremble, her eyes falling before his.

"Prudence!" he whispered, hoarsely. "Prudence! Think what you're saying, dear! Do you mean it! Do you, sweetheart?"

His arms closed about her until the bent head was against his shoulder. Bistre, observing from a yard away, yawned cynically. The slim shoulders quivered under the black jacket, and when, at last, the blue eyes found courage to raise themselves to his, little tears trembled within them. Bending slowly, he kissed them, and they closed under his lips. Then, while they were still closed and might not see, he bent yet lower.

The eyes opened and she struggled gently until she was very far away from him—oh, quite twelve inches! Then,—