e foot of the table, and then nodded significantly. "Now you two can
imagine a month or two has passed," she said.

Even Doctor McCall smiled meaningly. Mr. Muller blushed, and glanced
shyly at Catharine. But she looked at him unmoved. "Our table will
not be like this," gravely. "You forget the three hundred blue-coats
between." Maria laughed, but Doctor McCall for the first time looked
steadily at the girl.

First of all, perhaps, Kitty was just then a housekeeper. She waited
anxiously to see if the steak was properly rare and the omelette
light, nodded brightly to Jane, who stood watchful behind her, and
then looked over at her betrothed, thinking how soon they would sit
down tete-a-tete for the rest of their lives, perhaps for eternity,
for, according to her orthodoxy, there could be no new loves in
heaven. How fat he was, and bald! The mild blue eyes behind their
glasses took possession of her and held her.

She listened to the talk between Doctor McCall and Miss Muller in a
language she had never learned. Maria's share of it was largely made
up of headlong dives into Spencer and Darwin, with reminiscences of
_The Dial_, while Doctor McCall's was anchored fast down to facts; but
it was all alive, suggestive, brilliant. They were young. They were
drinking life and love with full cups. She (looking over at the bald
head and spectacled eyes) had gone straight out of childhood into
middle age and respectability.

The breakfast was over at last. Miss Muller followed Doctor McCall
into the shop, where he fell to turning over the old books, and then
to the garden. What was the use of a stage properly set if the drama
would not begin?

"Pray do not worry any longer with that old bush," as he went back
to Peter's rose. "It is not a trait of yours to be persistent about
trifles. Or stay: give me a bud for my hair."

"Not these!" sharply, holding her hand. "I could not see one of these
roses on any woman's head."

She smiled, very well pleased: "You perceive some subtle connection
between me and the flower?"

"Nothing of the sort. There are some, planted, I suppose, by that
little girl, which will be more becoming to your face."

"You are repelled by 'the little girl,' I see, John. I always told you
your instincts were magnetic. That type of woman is antipathetic to
you."

He laughed: "I have no instincts, hardly ideas, about either roses
or types of women. If I avoided Miss Vogdes, it was because her name
recall