eamed
she hummed to herself in approval, and wasn't aware that the air she
hummed was the Spanish Cavalier--and wasn't aware that Burdon Woodward
was near until she suddenly awoke from her dream and found they were face
to face.

He turned and walked with her.

The wine of the day might have been working in Burdon, too, for he hadn't
walked far with Mary before he was reminding her more strongly than ever,
of Steerforth in David Copperfield--Baffles in the Amateur Cracksman.
Indeed, that morning, listening to his drawl and looking up at the dark
handsome face with its touch of recklessness, the association of Mary's
ideas widened.

M'sieur Beaucaire, just from the gaming table--Don Juan on the Nevski
Prospekt--Buckingham on his way to the Tuileries--they all might have
been talking to her, warming her thoughts not so much by what they said
as by what they might say, appealing to her like a romance which must,
however, be read to the end if you wish to know the full story.

They were going through an empty corridor when it happened. Burdon,
drawling away as agreeably as ever, gently closed his fingers around
Mary's hand.

"I might have known," she thought in a little panic. "It's my own fault."
But when she tried to pull her hand away, her panic grew.

"No, no," said Burdon, laughing low, his eyes more reckless than ever,
"you might tell--if I stopped now. But you'll never tell a soul on
earth--if I kiss you."

Even while Mary was struggling, her head held down, she couldn't help
thinking, "So that's the way he does it," and felt, I think, as feels the
fly who has walked into the parlour. The next moment she heard a sharp
voice, "Here--stop that!" and running steps approaching.

"I think it was Archey," she thought, as she made her escape, her knees
shaking, her breath coming fast. She knew it was, ten minutes later, when
Archey found her in the office--knew it from the way he looked at her and
the hesitation of his speech--but it wasn't until they were shaking hands
in parting that she saw the cut on his knuckles.

"You've hurt yourself," she said. "Wait; I have some adhesive plaster."

Even then she didn't guess.

"How did you do it?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't know--"

Mary's glance suddenly deepened into tenderness, and when Archey left a
few minutes later, he walked as one who trod the clouds, his head among
the stars.

An hour passed, and Mary looked in Uncle Stanley's office. Burdon's desk
was clo