What did he read in the face which his dark eyes scanned as they turned full upon it?  Was it “I love you”?  Was it “Alas!”?  He could not tell.

“You are pledged to love ‘the True and the Beautiful,’” said she quite gayly, “and so I am not surprised.”

Leonhard looked mortified and angry.  A man of twenty-two declaring love for the first time to a woman had a right to expect better treatment.

“I have offended you,” she said instantly.  “I only followed out your own train of thought.  You may have half a dozen professions, and—­”

“I am at least clear that I love only you,” he said.  “I hoped you would feel that.  It is certain, I think, that I shall confine myself to the studies of an architect hereafter.  I will give no more lessons.  And shall you care to know whether I go or stay?”

Miss Ayres answered—­almost as if in spite of herself and that good judgment for which she had been sufficiently praised during her eighteen years of existence—­“Yes, I shall care a vast deal.  That is the reason why I say, ’Go, if it seems best to you’—­’Stay, if you think it more wise.’  I have the confidence in you that sees you can conduct your own affairs.”

“If I go,” he cried in a happy voice, in strong contrast with his words, “it will be to leave everything behind me that can make life sweet.”

“But if you go it will be to gain everything that can make life honorable.  I did not understand that you thought of going for pleasure.”  Ah, how almost tender now her look and tone!

“Say but once to me what I have said to you,” said Leonhard joyfully, confident now that he had won the great prize.

“Now?  No:  don’t talk about it.  Wait a while, and we will see if there is anything in it.”  What queer lover’s mood was this?  Miss Marion looked as if she had passed her fortieth birthday when she spoke in this wise.

“Oh for a soft sweet breeze from the north-east to temper such cruel blasts!” exclaimed Leonhard.  “Was ever man so treated as I am by this strong-minded young woman?”

“Everybody on the grounds is looking, and wondering how she will get home with the intemperate young gentleman she is escorting.  Did you say you were going to talk with your friend Mr. Wilberforce about going abroad with him for a year or two?”

“I said no such thing, but perhaps I may.  I was going to write, but it may be as easy to run down to Philadelphia.”

“Easier, I should say.”

So they talked, and when they parted Leonhard said:  “If you do not see me to-morrow evening, you will know that I have gone to Philadelphia.  I shall not write to let you know.  You might feel that an answer was expected of you.”

“I have never been taught the arts of a correspondent, and it is quite too late to learn them,” she answered.

Miss Marion will probably never again feel as old as she does this afternoon, when she has half snubbed, half flattered and half accepted the man she admires and loves, but whose one fault she clearly perceives and is seriously afraid of.