!" she laughed as he rose.

It was true that it was as poor old hard-working Don he moved toward
her. But there was magic in her lithe young body; there was magic in
her warm hand; there was magic in her swimming eyes. As he fell into
the rhythm of the music and breathed the incense of her hair, he was
whirled into another world--a world of laughter and melody and
care-free fairies. But the two most beautiful fairies of all were her
two beautiful eyes, which urged him to dance faster and faster, and
which left him in the end stooping, with short breaths, above her
upturned lips.

CHAPTER VII

ROSES

When Miss Winthrop changed her mind and consented not to seek a new
luncheon place, she was taking a chance, and she knew it. If ever
Blake heard of the new arrangement,--and he was sure to hear of it if
any one ever saw her there with Don,--she was fully aware how he would
interpret it to the whole office.

She was taking a chance, and she knew it--knew it with a curious sense
of elation. She was taking a chance for him. This hour at noon was the
only opportunity she had of talking to Don. If she let that pass, then
she could do nothing more for him. She must stand back and watch him
go his own way, as others had gone their way.

For one thing was certain: she could allow no further conversations in
the office. She had been forced to stop those, and had warned him that
he must not speak to her again there except on business, and that he
must not sit at Powers's desk and watch her at work. When he had
challenged her for a reason, she had blushed; then she had replied
simply:--

"It isn't business."

So, when on Saturday morning Don came in heavy-eyed for lack of sleep
after the Moore dance, she merely looked up and nodded and went on
with her work. But she studied him a dozen times when he did not know
she was studying him, and frowned every time he suppressed, with
difficulty, a yawn. He appeared tired--dead tired.

For the first time in months she found herself looking forward to
the noon hour. She glanced at her watch at eleven-thirty, at
eleven-forty-five, and again at five minutes before twelve.

To-day she reserved a seat for him in the little lunch-room. But at
fifteen minutes past twelve, when Don usually strode in the door, he
had not come. At twenty minutes past he had not come. If he did not
come in another five minutes she resolved to make no further effort to
keep his place--either to-day o