le study
appeared to her wasted! At her first dinner she had felt as bewildered
and unhappy as if she had never opened one of those thick gaudy volumes
that had cost so much--as much as a box of chocolates every day for a
week. "I don't care," she said aloud, with sullen resolution. "I am
going to let them see that I don't want any favours."

The next afternoon she went out early in order to escape Gershom; but
when she came in, after a restless wandering in shops and a short drive,
she met him just as he was turning away from the door.

"Something told me I'd find you at this hour," he remarked with
unfailing good humour. "Come out and walk about in the Square. It will
do you good."

She shook her head impatiently. "I'm tired. I don't like walking."

"Well, I reckon it's easier to sit anyway. We'll go inside."

"No, if I've got to talk to you I'd rather do it out of doors," she
replied, turning back toward the gate.

"That's right. The air's fine. I shouldn't wonder if the bad weather
ain't all over."

"I don't mind the bad weather," she retorted pettishly because it was
the only remark she could think of that sounded disagreeable.

They passed through the gate, and walked rapidly in the direction of the
Washington monument, which lifted a splendid silhouette against a deep
blue background of sky. It was one of those soft, opal-tinted February
days which fall like a lyric interlude in the gray procession of winter.
The sunshine lay like flowing gold on the pavement; and the breeze that
stirred now and then in the leafless boughs of the trees was as roving
and provocative as the air of spring. In the winding brick walks of the
Square children were at play with the squirrels and pigeons; and old
men, with gnarled hands and patient hopeless faces, sat warming
themselves in the sunshine on the benches. "Life!" she thought. "That's
life. You can't get away from it." Then one of the old men broke into a
cackle of cheerful laughter, and she added: "After all nobody is ever
pathetic to himself."

"I believe I'll go in," she said, turning to Gershom. "I want to take
off my hat."

He laughed. "Your hat's all right, ain't it? It looks pretty good to
me."

A shiver of aversion ran through her. If only he wouldn't try to be
funny! If only he had been born without that dreadful sense of humour,
she felt that she might have been able to tolerate him.

"Please don't," she replied fretfully.

"Well, I won't, if you'll