"From Boston--my beauty!"

"But I can't wear all of them!"

"Why not?" he demanded. "Haven't you a pin?"

She produced one, attaching them with a gesture that seemed habitual,
though the thought of their value-revealing in some degree her own worth
in his eyes-unnerved her. She was warmly conscious of his gaze. Then he
turned, and opening a compartment at the back of the car drew from it a
bright tweed motor coat warmly lined.

"Oh, no!" she protested, drawing back. "I'll--I'll be warm enough."
But laughingly, triumphantly, he seized her and thrust her arms in the
sleeves, his fingers pressing against her. Overcome by shyness, she drew
away from him.

"I made a pretty good guess at the size--didn't I, Janet?" he cried,
delightedly surveying her. "I couldn't forget it!" His glance grew more
concentrated, warmer, penetrating.

"You mustn't look at me like that!" she pleaded with lowered eyes.

"Why not--you're mine--aren't you? You're mine, now."

"I don't know. There are lots of things I want to talk about," she
replied, but her protest sounded feeble, unconvincing, even to herself.
He fairly lifted her into the automobile--it was a caress, only tempered
by the semi-publicity of the place. He was giving her no time to
think--but she did not want to, think. Starting the engine, he got in
and leaned toward her.

"Not here!" she exclaimed.

"All right--I'll wait," he agreed, tucking the robe about her deftly,
solicitously, and she sank back against the seat, surrendering herself
to the luxury, the wonder of being cherished, the caressing and
sheltering warmth she felt of security and love, the sense of
emancipation from discontent and sordidness and struggle. For a moment
she closed her eyes, but opened them again to behold the transformed
image of herself reflected in the windshield to confirm the illusion--if
indeed it were one! The tweed coat seemed startlingly white in the
sunlight, and the woman she saw, yet recognized as herself, was one
of the fortunately placed of the earth with power and beauty at her
command! And she could no longer imagine herself as the same person who
the night before had stood in front of the house in Warren Street. The
car was speeding over the smooth surface of the boulevard; the swift
motion, which seemed to her like that of flying, the sparkling air, the
brightness of the day, the pressure of Ditmar's shoulder against hers,
thrilled her. She marvelled at his sure command over t