hout speaking. For several moments
they continued the silence, then turned slowly and looked at each
other; then looked slowly and gravely away, as if to an audience
in front of them. They knew how to do it; but probably a critic in
the first row would have concluded that Cora felt it even more
than Valentine Corliss enjoyed it.

"I suppose this is very clandestine," she said, after a deep
breath. "I don't think I care, though."

"I hope you do," he smiled, "so that I could think your coming
means more."

"Then I'll care," she said, and looked at him again.

"You dear!" he exclaimed deliberately.

She bit her lip and looked down, but not before he had seen the
quick dilation of her ardent eyes. "I wanted to be out of doors,"
she said. "I'm afraid there's one thing of yours I don't like, Mr.
Corliss."

"I'll throw it away, then. Tell me."

"Your house. I don't like living in it, very much. I'm sorry you
_can't_ throw it away."

"I'm thinking of doing that very thing," he laughed. "But I'm glad
I found the rose in that queer old waste-basket first."

"Not too much like a rose, sometimes," she said. "I think this
morning I'm a little like some of the old doors up on the third
floor: I feel rather unhinged, Mr. Corliss."

"You don't look it, Miss Madison!"

"I didn't sleep very well." She bestowed upon him a glance which
transmuted her actual explanation into, "I couldn't sleep for
thinking of you." It was perfectly definite; but the acute
gentleman laughed genially.

"Go on with you!" he said.

Her eyes sparkled, and she joined laughter with him. "But it's
true: you did keep me awake. Besides, I had a serenade."

"Serenade? I had an idea they didn't do that any more over here. I
remember the young men going about at night with an orchestra
sometimes when I was a boy, but I supposed----"

"Oh, it wasn't much like that," she interrupted, carelessly. "I
don't think that sort of thing has been done for years and years.
It wasn't an orchestra--just a man singing under my window."

"With a guitar?"

"No." She laughed a little. "Just singing."

"But it rained last night," said Corliss, puzzled.

"Oh, _he_ wouldn't mind that!"

"How stupid of me! Of course, he wouldn't. Was it Richard
Lindley?"

"Never!"

"I see. Yes, that was a bad guess: I'm sure Lindley's just the
same steady-going, sober, plodding old horse he was as a boy. His
picture doesn't fit a romantic frame--singing under a lady's
window