he quiet
movements of her hands.

"I've been thinking over what you said yesterday," said she. "I can't
do what you want; but I can suggest a compromise. You seem determined
on restitution. Have you forgotten that you once offered it me in
another form?"

"You refused it in that form--then."

"I wouldn't refuse it now. If you could be content with that."

"Do you remember why you refused it?"

She did not answer, but a faint flush told him that she had not
forgotten.

"The same objection--the same reason for objecting--holds good now."

"Not quite. I should not be wronging any one else."

"You mean the Beaver, who dotes upon immortal verse?"

She smiled a little sadly. "Yes; there's no Beaver in the question
now."

"You shall have the sonnets in any case. I brought them for you in
place of the _Aurea Legenda_, and the Neapolitan Horace and--"

She lay back in her chair and closed her eyes, as if she could shut
out sound with sight. "Please--please. If you go on talking about it
we shall both be very tired. Don't you feel as if you'd like some
tea?" She was bringing out all her feminine reserves to conquer him.
But he was not going to be conquered this time. He could afford to
wait; for he also had reserves.

"I'm so sorry," he said humbly. "I won't bore you any more till after
tea."

And Lucia knew it was an armistice only and not peace.

At tea-time Kitty perceived that the moment was not yet propitious for
her invitation. She was not even sure that it would ever come. Nor
would it; for Rickman knew that his only chance lay in their imminent
parting, in the last hour that must be his.

He was counting on it when the steady, resistless flow of a stream of
callers cut short his calculations. It flowed between him and Lucia.
They could only exchange amused or helpless glances across it now and
then. At last he found a moment and approached her.

"I wanted to give you those things before I go."

"Very well. We'll go into the house in one minute."

He waited. She made a sign that said, "Come," and he followed her. She
avoided the morning-room that looked on the courtyard with its throng
of callers; hesitated, and opened the door into the library. He ran
upstairs to fetch the manuscript, and joined her there. But for the
empty bookshelves this room, too, was as he had left it.

Lucia was sitting in a window seat. He came to her and gave the poems
into her open hands, and she thanked him.

"Nonsense