rippling away from it.  Certainly, she had moments of beauty.  She talked very little; perhaps because she hadn’t the chance to talk—­living, as she did, with an aunt who monopolized the conversation.  She had no close friends;—­her shyness was so often mistaken for hauteur, that she did not inspire friendship in women of her own age, and Mrs. Newbolt’s elderly acquaintances were merely condescending to her, and gave her good advice; so it was a negative sort of life.  Indeed, her sky terrier, Bingo, and her laundress, Mrs. O’Brien, to whose crippled baby grandson she was endlessly kind, knew her better than any of the people among whom she lived.  When Maurice Curtis, cramming in Mercer because Destiny had broken his tutor’s leg there, and presenting (with the bored reluctance of a boy) a letter of introduction from his guardian to Mrs. Newbolt—­when Maurice met Mrs. Newbolt’s niece, something happened.  Perhaps because he felt her starved longing for personal happiness, or perhaps her obvious pleasure in listening, silently, to his eager talk, touched his young vanity; whatever the reason was, the boy was fascinated by her.  He had ("cussing,” as he had expressed it to himself) accepted an invitation to dine with the “ancient dame” (again his phrase!)—­and behold the reward of merit:—­the niece!—­a gentle, handsome woman, whose age never struck him, probably because her mind was as immature as his own.  Before dinner was over Eleanor’s silence—­silence is very moving to youth, for who knows what it hides?—­and her deep, still eyes, lured him like a mystery.  Then, after dinner ("a darned good dinner,” Maurice had conceded to himself) the calm niece sang, and instantly he knew that it was Beauty which hid in silence—­and he was in love with her!  He had dined with her on Tuesday, called on Wednesday, proposed on Friday;—­it was all quite like Solomon Grundy! except that, although she had fallen in love with him almost as instantly as he had fallen in love with her, she had, over and over again, refused him.  During the period of her refusals the boy’s love glowed like a furnace; it brought both power and maturity into his fresh, ardent, sensitive face.  He threw every thought to the winds—­except the thought of rescuing his princess from Mrs. Newbolt’s imprisoning bric-a-brac.  As for his “cramming” the tutor into whose hands Mr. Houghton had committed his ward’s very defective trigonometry and economics, Mr. Bradley, held in Mercer because of an annoying accident, said to himself that his intentions were honest, but if Curtis didn’t turn up for three days running, he would utilize the time his pupil was paying for by writing a paper on “The Fourth Dimension.”

Maurice was in some new dimension himself!  Except “old Brad,” he knew almost no one in Mercer, so he had no confidant; and because his passion was, perforce, inarticulate, his candid forehead gathered wrinkles of positive suffering, which made him look as old as Eleanor, who, dazed by the first very exciting thing that had ever happened to her,—­the experience of being adored (and adored by a boy, which is a heady thing to a woman of her age!)—­Eleanor was saying to herself a dozen times a day:  “I mustn’t say ‘yes’!  Oh, what shall I do?” Then suddenly there came a day when the rush of his passion decided what she would do....