exclamations of surprise, of
appreciation and pleasure she maintained the outward poise, the
inscrutability that summed up for him her uniqueness in the world of
woman. She sat as easily upright in the delicate Chippendale chair as
though she had been born to it. He made wild surmises as to what she
might be thinking. Was she, as she seemed, taking all this as a matter of
course? She imposed on him an impelling necessity to speak, to say
anything--it did not matter what--and he began to dwell on the
excellences of the hotel. She did not appear to hear him, her eyes
lingering on the room, until presently she asked:--"What's the name of
this hotel?"

He told her.

"I thought they only allowed married people to come, like this, in a
private room."

"Oh!" he began--and the sudden perception that she had made this
statement impartially added to his perplexity. "Well," he was able to
answer, "we're as good as married, aren't we, Janet?" He leaned toward
her, he put his hand on hers. "The manager here is an old friend of mine.
He knows we're as good as married."

"Another old friend!" she queried. And the touch of humour, in spite of
his taut nerves, delighted him.

"Yes, yes," he laughed, rather uproariously. "I've got 'em everywhere, as
thick as landmarks."

"You seem to," she said.

"I hope you're hungry," he said.

"Not very," she replied. "It's all so strange--this day, Claude. It's
like a fairy story, coming here to Boston in the snow, and this place,
and--and being with you."

"You still love me?" he cried, getting up.

"You must know that I do," she answered simply, raising her face to his.
And he stood gazing down into it, with an odd expression she had never
seen before.... "What's the matter?" she asked.

"Nothing--nothing," he assured her, but continued to look at her. "You're
so--so wonderful," he whispered, "I just can't believe it."

"And if it's hard for you," she answered, "think what it must be for me!"
And she smiled up at him.

Ditmar had known a moment of awe.... Suddenly he took her face between
his hands and pressed his rough cheek against it, blindly. His hands
trembled, his body was shaken, as by a spasm.

"Why, you're still cold, Claude!" she cried anxiously.

And he stammered out: "I'm not--it's you--it's having you!"

Before she could reply to this strange exclamation, to which,
nevertheless, some fire in her leaped in response, there came a knock at
the door, and he drew away