he way in which
her brave little figure had tripped out of sight among the blustering
March sunshine and shadows. A child, he thought, impulsive and lacking
in perspective, with a child's alacrity for drying its tears and
believing in a future happiness. How would she regard this morning years
hence in the after-glow of experience? Would she find nothing in its
calamities but foolishness? And what relation would he himself bear to
her when she had arrived at that stoical calm?

He reentered the house. In the room where they had been together the
fragrance of her presence still lingered. The chair was pushed back,
just as she had risen from it to lift her warm, red lips to his. How
smooth they were! Again like a child's! Everything about her was young
and undeveloped. She had kissed simply and gratefully, with none of the
blundering, sweet surrender with which a woman clings to her lover. If
she had ever kissed Braithwaite, she had not kissed him like that.

And then Tabs was overcome with a reluctant remorse, which was tinged
with a shameful sense of triumph. She had offered him her lips in
gratitude; they had kindled in him the flames of passion. For the moment
he had devoured her with kisses--her eyes, lips, cheeks and hair.

If he were to keep himself in hand, he must fill his days with
interests--_new_ interests. He must move among people and normalize
himself. He must fight against the melancholy of his obsession. His eyes
chanced to rest on the crumpled sheet of scented note-paper tossed into
the empty grate. Stooping, he picked it up and smoothed it out. This
problem of Maisie would at least divert him--besides, he had promised to
do what he could for Adair. He noted the Chelsea address and reread the
contents with its sly humility and hint of coquetry: "I have been given
to understand that you are exceedingly anxious to make my acquaintance.
If this is so, I shall be at home when you call to-morrow afternoon."

She had been quite certain that he would call when she wrote those
words. They had all the assurance of one who was fully persuaded of her
own powers of charm and beauty.

"Again, Maisie P.," he apostrophized her, "I'm bound to acknowledge that
you know more about me than I know about myself. I didn't know that I
wanted to make your acquaintance at the time when you were writing this
letter. I was quite sure that I wasn't going to call upon you when I
read it. In both cases you were the better informe