ris was luckier for not replying.

It may be that the Destiny, which, we are told, shapes our ends, did
not leave his so rough-hewn as it might have.

He himself could scarcely have told what thoughts were framing
themselves in his mind; what words had almost formed themselves on his
tongue. There are moments in life, when we live at the rate of hours;
and Van Morris was certainly going the pace, mentally, for those ten
seconds of silence, before the echo of the girl's voice ceased
vibrating on his ear. He was vaguely conscious, some ten seconds later
still, that rarely had a calm, well-posed man of the world found
himself quite so dizzy, from combined effects of a quick waltz, a
flower-laden atmosphere, and a rounded arm pressing only restfully
upon his own.

Suddenly that pressure grew sharp and decided. They stopped abruptly
at a sharp turn of the walk.

On a somewhat too small rustic seat, under the fruit-laden boughs of
an orange tree, and comfortably screened thereby from the gleam of the
tinted lantern, sat Miss Rose Wood and Mr. Andrew Browne.

Their two heads were rather close together; their two hands were
suspiciously distant, as though by sudden movement; and the lady's fan
had fallen at her feet, most _a propos_ to the crunch of the gravel,
under approaching feet.

But only Blanche--less preoccupied with her thoughts than her
companion--had caught the words, "Dismiss carriage--escort home,"
before Miss Wood's fan had happened to drop at her feet.

What there might be in those words to drop the color out of rosy
cheeks, or to clench white little teeth hard together, it might well
puzzle one to guess. But the face that had not changed under the
strong music of Van Morris's voice, now grew deadly white an instant;
then flooded again with surging rush of color.

But very quickly, though with perfect self-possession, Miss Wood had
risen and advanced one step, to arrange Blanche's lace, with the
words:

"Your _berthe_ is loose, darling!"

Then, as she inserted the harmless, unnecessary pin, she whispered in
the shell-like ear:

"_Don't_ scold me, loved one! Indeed, I was _not_ flirting. I only
came out here to keep him from the--_champagne punch!_"

Blanche made no reply to this whispered confidence; nor did she seem
especially grateful for the grace done to her toilette. She never so
much as glanced at Andy Browne. He, also, had risen, after picking up
the dropped fan, with not effortless grace;