an author had never come to Aline
until after the first book they wrote together, that, to Basil Norman's
mind, was no more than a coincidence, and he had never ceased to feel
that she was generous in letting his name appear with hers on their
title pages.

"I wonder if anything can have happened to him!" Aline murmured.

"Which, Dick or Claud?" her brother asked, puzzled. Dick was to be their
hero, Claud the villain. Basil had been engaged in outlining the two
characters for his sister's approval.

"No. Ian Somerled," she explained almost crossly, though her voice was
sweet, because it was never otherwise than sweet. "Either the train's
late or----"

"I'd have met him with pleasure," Basil reminded her.

"It would be _fatal_ to do anything he didn't wish," she answered. "He's
a man who knows exactly what he wants, and hates to have people go
against his directions in the smallest things."

Norman looked at her rather anxiously through the soft summer darkness
that was hardly darkness. She was walking beside him with her hands
clasped behind her back and her head bent. He thought her extremely
pretty, and wondered if Somerled thought so too. But he wished that she
did not care quite so much what Somerled thought. And he was not sure
whether she were right about what Somerled liked.

"I wonder if we understand Somerled?" he asked, as if he were
questioning himself aloud. "After all, we don't know him very well."

"I do," Aline said. "I know him like a book. He's bored to death with
everything nearly. Only I--we--haven't bored him yet. And we must take
care not to."

"You could never bore anybody," Basil assured her loyally. "But--I wish
you'd tell me something honestly, old girl."

"Not if you call me that!" She laughed a little. "It wouldn't matter if
I were twenty-five instead of--never mind! I don't want people to think,
when they hear you, 'Many a true word spoken in jest.'"

"Somerled's older than you are, anyhow," Basil consoled her.

"I should think so--ages! Don't forget, dear, I'm only just thirty. I
don't look more, do I--truly?"

"Not a day over twenty-eight."

She was disappointed that he did not say less. She had been twenty-nine
for years, and had just begun, for a change, to state frankly that she
was thirty. She had never been able to forgive Basil for being younger
than she, but she could trust him not to advertise his advantage. He
really was a dear! She hated herself for being jealous