Later, when she gave the signal, they rose as though they had often dined together, and moved leisurely out through the dim, shrouded drawing-rooms where, in the golden dusk, the odor of camphor hung.

She had taken a great cluster of dewy Bride’s roses from the centerpiece, and as she walked forward, sedately youthful, beside him, her fresh, young face brooded over the fragrance of the massed petals.

“Sweet—­how sweet!” she murmured to herself, and as they reached the end of the vista she half turned to face him, dreamily, listless, confident.

They looked at one another, she with chin brushing the roses.

“The strangest of all,” she said, “is that it seems all right—­and—­and we know that it is all quite wrong....  Had you better go?”

“Unless I ought to wait and make sure your maid does not fail you....  Shall I?” he asked evenly.

She did not answer.  He drew a linen-swathed armchair toward her; she absently seated herself and lay back, caressing the roses with delicate lips and chin.

Twice she looked up at him, standing there by the boarded windows.  Sunshine filtered through the latticework at the top—­enough for them to see each other as in a dull afterglow.

“I wonder how soon my maid will come,” she mused, dropping the loose roses on her knees.  “If she is going to be very long about it perhaps—­ perhaps you might care to find a chair—­if you have decided to wait.”

He drew one from a corner and seated himself, pulses hammering his throat.

Through the stillness of the house sounded at intervals the clink of glass from the pantry.  Other sounds from above indicated the plumber’s progress from floor to floor.

“Do you realize,” she said impulsively, “how very nice you have been to me?  What a perfectly horrid position I might have been in, with poor Clarence on the back fence!  And suppose I had dared follow him alone to the cellar?  I—­I might have been there yet—­up to my neck in coal?”

She gazed into space with considerable emotion.

“And now,” she said, “I am safe here in my own home.  I have lunched divinely, a maid is on the way to me, Clarence remains somewhere safe indoors, Mr. Quinn is flitting from faucet to faucet, the electric light and the telephone will be in working order before very long—­and it is all due to you!”

“I—­I did a few things I almost w-wish I hadn’t,” stammered Brown, “b-because I can’t, somehow, decently t-tell you how tremendously I—­I—­” He stuck fast.

“What?”

“It would look as though I were presuming on a t-trifling service rendered, and—­oh, I can’t say it; I want to, but I can’t.”

“Say what?  Please, I don’t mind what you are—­are going to say.”

“It’s—­it’s that I——­”

“Y-es?” in soft encouragement.

“W-want to know you most tremendously now.  I don’t want to wait several years for chance and hazard.”