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 wholly encouraging. Her smile—that had lost none of its dimples—would lose its suggestion of superiority; instead of looking at him with the open gaze which promised nothing because it concealed nothing, she would return to the girlish shy glance that was so dear to his memory. She would recognise his greater experience of life and defer to him. She would accept his more cheerful outlook on the future and be willing to continue her search for employment without this rasping anxiety which made such a discord of their friendship.

He found himself, unexpectedly, at her door. The smiling maid let him in, amused by the frequency of his visits. He waited in the familiar parlour, awakened to apprehension by the approach of a meeting for which he suddenly found himself quite unprepared.

When Margaret appeared, silently, in the doorway, he rose, startled; for she had the pale and set face of an actress entering upon the stage again after the climax of a tragedy. She looked at him, looked away from him, and crossed in front of him to give him her back from the window.

The silence that ensued seemed to him an hour long. He began bravely: "I wanted to explain. I had been worried— worried about Conroy—and about other things. I hadn't had time, scarcely, to think—to plan for you; and"

"You needn't trouble yourself," she put in. "I'm going home."

He took a step toward her and stopped, helplessly. There was an anguish of disappointment in his "Why?"