s struck, she saw it. But she
was not educated up to a good many of the suggestions of the gallery.
Henderson perceived this, and his manner to her became more deferential
and protective. It was a manner to which every true woman responds, and
Margaret was happy, more herself, and talked with a freedom and gayety, a
spice of satire, and a note of reality that made her every moment more
attractive to her companion. In her, animation the charm of her unworn
beauty blazed upon him with a direct personal appeal. He hardly cared to
conceal his frank admiration. She, on her part, was thinking, what could
Miss Eschelle mean by saying that she was afraid of him?

"Does the world seem any larger here, Miss Debree?" he asked, as they had
lingeringly made the circuit of the room and passed out through the
tropical conservatory to join the rest of the company.

"Yes--away from people."

"Then it is not numbers, I am glad to know, that make a world."

She did not reply. But when he encountered her, robed for departure, at
the foot of the stairway, she gave him her hand in good-night, and their
eyes met for a moment.

I wonder if that was the time? Probably not. I fancy that when the right
day came she confessed that the moment was when she first saw him enter
their box at the opera.

Henderson walked down the avenue slowly, hearing the echo of his own
steps in the deserted street. He was in no haste to reach home. It was
such a delightful evening-snowing a little, and cold, but so
exhilarating. He remembered just how she turned her head as she got into
the carriage. She had touched his arm lightly once in the gallery to call
his attention to a picture. Yes, the world was larger, larger, by one,
and it would seem large--her image came to him distinctly--if she were
the only one.

Henderson was under the spell of this evening when the next, in response
to a note asking him to call for a moment on business, he was shown into
the Eschelle drawing-room. It was dimly lighted, but familiarity with the
place enabled him without difficulty to find his way down the long suite,
rather overcrowded with luxurious furniture, statuary, and pictures on
easels, to the little library at the far end glowing in a rosy light.

There, ensconced in a big chair, a book in her hand, one pretty foot on
the fender, sat Carmen, in a grayish, vaporous toilet, which took a warm
hue from the color of the spreading lamp-shades. On the carved table near
wa