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80 thoughts of Ben's absence and a certain look in Philip's eyes, portending that something she had long feared, something she knew he and her father and Aunt Abigail were doing their utmost to bring about.

"Isn't this a peach of a waltz, Sally?"

"Yes—but it isn't a clingstone. Don't hold me so tight."

"That wasn't tight, Sally."

"Tighter than necessary," and then, because she was worried, she snapped,—"You heard what I said."

"Why are you so stand-offish with me, Sally?"

She relented.

"I'm sure I didn't mean to be. If there's one thing I can't stand in people it's not being true to their friends." She was hoping he would accept that construction—it was getting to be a euphemism as it was—"I hope I'm not that way myself," she finished.

"You've avoided me, haven't you now?"

Sally's blush was very red, the answering fib white:

"N-n-no."

Not having entirely escaped the Puritan curse of hyper-conscience, she felt guilty, although all her avoidance had been mere self-defence. He reversed—she couldn't help noticing that he did it beautifully—she tried the same manœuvre with the conversation:

"Isn't the colouring of those leaves over there beautiful?" It was too abrupt, and the trick didn't work.

"Almost as pretty as you are in that dress."

"Well, Phil, if you won't take a hint, I'll ask you right out plain. Please don't be personal, tonight or any night. Let's