said.

"What a ridiculous remark!" Joan retorted; "one cannot dance all day,
can one? Besides, I am not even a real reporter. I am only a typist."

"That is worse, to think of you as that is impossible," he said. "Let us
go outside and find somewhere to sit."

"But what about our reporting," Joan remonstrated; "I thought you were
going to point out celebrities?"

"Time enough for that," he answered. "I am going to take you out on to a
balcony meanwhile. There will only be the stars to look at us, and I am
going to pretend you are a fairy and that you live in the heart of a
rose, not a typist or any such awful thing."

Joan laughed. "I wish you could see my attic," she said. "It is such a
funny rose for any fairy to live in."

They sat out four dances, or was it more? Joan lost count. Out here on
the balcony, with only the stars as chaperon and a pulse of music
calling to them from the ballroom, time sped past on silver wings. For
Joan the evening was a dream; to-morrow morning she would wake, put on
her old blue coat and skirt, catch her bus at the corner of the square
and spend the day in sorting and arranging Mr. Strangman's papers.
To-night she was content to watch the bubble held before her by this
man's soft words, his strange, intent eyes; she made no attempt to
investigate it too closely. But for Landon the evening was one step
along an impulse he intended to follow to the end. He was busy laying
sure foundations, learning all there was to know of Joan's life and
surroundings, of the difficulties that might lie in the way of his
desire, of the barriers he might have to pull down.

"Things are not going to end here," he told Joan, as, the last dance
finished, they stood among the crowd waiting for a taxi. He had helped
her on with her cloak and the feel of his strong warm hands on her
shoulder had sent the blood rushing to Joan's heart.

"I don't see how it is not going to end," she answered; "you must
remember I am not even a reporter."

"No, and I am," he smiled; "I had forgotten."

He moved to face her, and putting his hands over hers, fastened up her
cloak for her. It seemed his hands lingered over the task, and finally
stayed just holding hers lightly.

"I am going to see it does not end, none the less," he said. "I shall
come and fetch you at your office this day next week and you shall dine
with me somewhere and go on to a theatre. What time do you get out of
office?"

"At about six," Joan an