"I've told her, simply, that I'd seen you once or twice at Mrs.
Murrett's."

"And not that you've ever seen me since?"

"And not that I've ever seen you since..."

"And she believes you--she completely believes you?"

He uttered a protesting exclamation, and his flush reflected itself in
the girl's cheek.

"Oh, I beg your pardon! I didn't mean to ask you that." She halted, and
again cast a rapid glance behind and ahead of her. Then she held out her
hand. "Well, then, thank you--and let me relieve your fears. I sha'n't
be Effie's governess much longer."

At the announcement, Darrow tried to merge his look of relief into the
expression of friendly interest with which he grasped her hand. "You
really do agree with me, then? And you'll give me a chance to talk
things over with you?"

She shook her head with a faint smile. "I'm not thinking of the stage.
I've had another offer: that's all."

The relief was hardly less great. After all, his personal responsibility
ceased with her departure from Givre.

"You'll tell me about that, then--won't you?"

Her smile flickered up. "Oh, you'll hear about it soon...I must catch
Effie now and drag her back to the blackboard."

She walked on for a few yards, and then paused again and confronted him.
"I've been odious to you--and not quite honest," she broke out suddenly.

"Not quite honest?" he repeated, caught in a fresh wave of wonder.

"I mean, in seeming not to trust you. It's come over me again as we
talked that, at heart, I've always KNOWN I could..."

Her colour rose in a bright wave, and her eyes clung to his for a swift
instant of reminder and appeal. For the same space of time the past
surged up in him confusedly; then a veil dropped between them.

"Here's Effie now!" she exclaimed.

He turned and saw the little girl trotting back to them, her hand in
Owen Leath's. Even through the stir of his subsiding excitement Darrow
was at once aware of the change effected by the young man's approach.
For a moment Sophy Viner's cheeks burned redder; then they faded to
the paleness of white petals. She lost, however, nothing of the bright
bravery which it was her way to turn on the unexpected. Perhaps no one
less familiar with her face than Darrow would have discerned the
tension of the smile she transferred from himself to Owen Leath, or
have remarked that her eyes had hardened from misty grey to a shining
darkness. But her observer was less struck by this than by the