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 ndeed for all her kindness. Besides, it might turn her head. Some small token of his gratitude—some trinket by which to remember him—was all that he could allow himself to offer. . . What trinket? Would she like to have one of his scarf-pins? Studs? Still more abs— Ah! he had it, he literally and most providentially had it, there, in the fender: a pair of ear-rings!

He plucked the pink pearl and the black from where they lay, and rang the bell.

His sense of dramatic propriety needed that the girl should, before he addressed her, perform her task of clearing the table. If she had it to perform after telling her love, and after receiving his gift and his farewell, the bathos would be distressing for them both.

But, while he watched her at her task, he did wish she would be a little quicker. For the glow in him seemed to be cooling momently. He wished he had had more than three glasses from the crusted bottle which she was putting away into the chiffonier. Down, doubt! Down, sense of disparity! The moment was at hand. Would he let it slip? Now she was folding up the table-cloth, now she was going.

"Stay!" he uttered. "I have something to say to you." The girl turned to him.

He forced his eyes to meet hers. "I understand," he said in a constrained voice, "that you