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 izingly at the relative, and the girl opened her little mouth to speak and changed her mind, and her throat swelled with the words she had not uttered so that the amber lump stood out.

Conscious as she was of the vibrating current that passed between her and this possible rival, Lanice was just as alive to Sears Ripley's eyes and mood. He had left Marian Evans and her group and had taken up his stand slightly behind her divan. He was watching her, out of little friendly triangular eyes, with burning interest. The thought flashed through her mind that this man understood her, as no one else ever had done. He knew everything, except that part of her nature that Anthony possessed. He understood everything, except the hours spent with Anthony Jones. Here he was baffled, and slightly fascinated. Here was her little private soul that he, who was so wise, never would see.

She tried to find the courage merely to say, 'Where is Mr. Jones?—I must see him—about the American edition of his book.' But she knew she might as well say, 'I love Anthony—if he is in this country I must see him; if he will have me I will go with him to Arabia.' Some day she would stop in at Clapyard & Dunster's and look over the English proofs and say casually to the old blind gentleman, 'By the way, I do wish I could get in touch with Mr. Jones—about some captions—'

She was relieved to find that the conversation had left Jones entirely and was concerned with the names of English inns. There was, it seemed, a famous