usual quota of choice tobacco. And though all about him had been the May
environment at its loveliest, through all his marching up and down he
had never once looked up.

Miles away, and ever more miles away, Georgiana had flown like the wind
in the swift car under its skilfully guiding hand. The drive was a
blurred impression of slowly gathering rosy twilight, of the odour of
the apple blossoms--somehow a different and more seductive fragrance
than it had been in the sunlit afternoon--and always there was the sense
of there being beside her a presence which disturbed. Channing's low
laugh, his vibrant voice in her ear, the things he said, half serious,
half earnest, always full of an only slightly veiled intent--the girl
who had spent so many days of her life in hard study or harder
housewifery could do no less than yield herself for the hour to the
pulse-quickening charm of it and forget everything else.

Just as twilight settled into dusk and for the first time the headlights
of the car came on with a long reach like a golden ribbon along the
road, Channing, suddenly slowing down, a few miles out of the city,
began a rapid speech on a subject so unexpected that it fairly took his
hearer's breath away.

"It's not fair of me to tell you, but I've simply got to get in the
first word. You must pretend you haven't heard it, but if there's any
persuading to be done I want my share, and want it first. Your cousins
are going to invite you to sail with them next week for a summer in
England after a fortnight in Paris--Paris in June! You don't know what
that means; you can't even imagine it. I can--I know it--don't I know
it!" He laughed softly. "Since they're to be away and won't need her
they'll send down their housekeeper--the most competent person in the
world--to stay with your father and make him absolutely comfortable, so
you don't have to hesitate on that score."

"It's perfectly wonderful, but"--Georgiana was staring at him through
the dusk--"but--oh, I couldn't, Mr. Channing! how could I? Father is so
feeble; something might happen."

"Not in summer. Things don't happen to elderly people in summer. It's in
winter--pneumonia and things like that. And don't you know he'd be
delighted to have you go? He wouldn't let you miss such a chance; I know
him already well enough for that."

"But, you see, I'm engaged to work for Mr. Jefferson----"

"Well, he'll be all right; he's a traveled man himself; anybody can see