She had, for instance, mentioned Clare Rossiter, very casually.  Oh very, very casually.  And he had said:  “Clare Rossiter?  Oh, yes, the tall blonde girl, isn’t she?”

She was very happy.  He had not seemed to find her too young or particularly immature.  He had asked her opinion on quite important things, and listened carefully when she replied.  She felt, though, that she knew about one-tenth as much as he did, and she determined to read very seriously from that time on.  Her mother, missing her that afternoon, found her curled up in the library, beginning the first volume of Gibbon’s “Rome” with an air of determined concentration, and wearing her best summer frock.

She did not intend to depend purely on Gibbon’s “Rome,” evidently.

“Are you expecting any one, Elizabeth?” she asked, with the frank directness characteristic of mothers, and Elizabeth, fixing a date in her mind with terrible firmness, looked up absently and said: 

“No one in particular.”

At three o’clock, with a slight headache from concentration, she went upstairs and put up her hair again; rather high this time to make her feel taller.  Of course, it was not likely he would come.  He was very busy.  So many people depended on him.  It must be wonderful to be like that, to have people needing one, and looking out of the door and saying:  “I think I see him coming now.”

Nevertheless when the postman rang her heart gave a small leap and then stood quite still.  When Annie slowly mounted the stairs she was already on her feet, but it was only a card announcing:  “Mrs. Sayre, Wednesday, May fifteenth, luncheon at one-thirty.”

However, at half past four the bell rang again, and a masculine voice informed Annie, a moment later, that it would put its overcoat here, because lately a dog had eaten a piece out of it and got most awful indigestion.

The time it took Annie to get up the stairs again gave her a moment so that she could breathe more naturally, and she went down very deliberately and so dreadfully poised that at first he thought she was not glad to see him.

“I came, you see,” he said.  “I intended to wait until to-morrow, but I had a little time.  But if you’re doing anything—­”

“I was reading Gibbon’s ‘Rome,’” she informed him.  “I think every one should know it.  Don’t you?”

“Good heavens, what for?” he inquired.

“I don’t know.”  They looked at each other, and suddenly they laughed.

“I wanted to improve my mind,” she explained.  “I felt, last night, that you-that you know so many things, and that I was frightfully stupid.”

“Do you mean to say,” he asked, aghast, “that I—!  Great Scott!”

Settled in the living-room, they got back rather quickly to their status of the night before, and he was moved to confession.

“I didn’t really intend to wait until to-morrow,” he said.  “I got up with the full intention of coming here to-day, if I did it over the wreck of my practice.  At eleven o’clock this morning I held up a consultation ten minutes to go to Yardsleys and buy a tie, for this express purpose.  Perhaps you have noticed it already.”