logies for tardiness and take his
empty chair. When again the orchestra drifted suddenly into the waltz to
which they had danced, she rose abruptly and left the room.

Well, she would go herself in the morning. She would settle everything
and pack her things at once. She went to the desk to ask for the check.
But there was nothing for her. No, the clerk assured her after much
fumbling, Mr. Blair hadn't left anything, either in her box or his own.
But,--the man stole a covert glance at her downcast face,--he was still
holding his rooms. Probably he meant to attend to it when he returned.

That he might not see the wild joy that leaped to her eyes, Miss
Hastings turned with startling suddenness and fled upstairs. Safe in her
own room she flung herself with tears and laughter on the bed. So that
was the hand he was playing, was it?--the dear, wicked, unmanageable--!
Of course he would have to be punished,--well punished! but--she laughed
aloud for pure joy--the world was a radiant place once more, and nothing
of any sort really mattered, because he was coming back.

But the next day went by, and the next, and he had not come. Day after
day passed in an empty procession, yet no one of them brought that for
which she waited. And there was nothing else to do. Work was out of the
question. She could not sit still long enough. It became, instead, her
sole occupation to linger each morning and afternoon on the verandah
until the steamer from Los Angeles had rounded the point and crossed the
bay in front of the hotel. Then, hidden behind the palms she would watch
until the last straggling tourist had left the pier. But still he did
not come.

Doubt in every tormenting guise assailed her. Perhaps he had changed his
mind and decided later not to return. Yet the clerk had said he meant to
come back! Perhaps her check, sent by mail, was even now in her box.
But she had not the courage to go again to the desk. Driven by alternate
hope and fear she lost color, and she could not sleep. During seven
miserable nights she planned to go back to Pasadena by the morning boat,
and as many times she put it off. Yet, if he did return to find her
waiting, what, then, would she have given him the right to think? But,
on the other hand, if she went she might never see him again!

On the eighth day she took herself grimly in hand. No longer would she
humiliate herself by any further delay. Wildenai had not waited, and
even a school teacher can b