'm sure."

"We haven't time to talk now, as you say," returned Edna, with a
measured coldness that caused her friend to look up, the light
vanishing from her face. "Your actions have amazed me beyond words.
Would you be willing that Thinkright should know the dreams and plans
you have indulged in in this place?"

Sylvia stood dumb, transfixed, convicted of guilt.

"It does not come gracefully from your hostess to lecture you, I know;
but against my will I have learned what I know, and--the disappointment
has been bitter, Sylvia. Don't be vexed with me for speaking plainly. I
can help you, I believe, when we get an opportunity for a quiet talk.
Yes, I'm coming, Jenny," for the girl was at the door, bringing a
question from the carpenter. "Excuse me, Sylvia. We'll talk later."

Dunham, upon reaching his room, forgot all about the book he had come
to seek. Standing still in the middle of the floor, he alternately went
into paroxysms of laughter and scowled gravely at the wall.

"Nonsense!" he ruminated. "Edna and I are both idiots. I could see that
Edna was back in that kitchen while we stood there. This is the
twentieth century, and Sylvia has never lived out of the world."

So from moment to moment he would dispose of the Idea; but then there
was the Look. That had been unmistakable. There was a chamber in
Dunham's heart where that memory picture hung, and it seemed to him
impertinence to open the door. As often as the recollection returned to
him he recoiled from it. That look had been a theft from Sylvia, not a
gift; but she had given him the potion at last. Again John laughed at
himself for believing in her intention. Again he scowled at the wall
because she had fulfilled it.

At last he shook himself together. An unacknowledged longing possessed
him to see how she would carry herself now. He caught up the book he
had come for, and went downstairs to the piazza. Sylvia had vanished.
Disappointed, he went back into the house. Straying to the piano, he
sat down and began to play a Chopin prelude. It was John's one and only
instrumental achievement, learned by ear, and dug out of the ivories,
as one might say, by long hours of laborious search for its harmonies.

Edna glided into the room. "If you don't mind, John," she said, "this
is Miss Lacey's nap-time."

He dropped his hands. "Certainly I won't mind, if you'll produce Miss
Sylvia. She's slipperier than a drop of quicksilver."

Edna stiffened slightly. "Pe