“H’m, can one do much—­this way?” he muttered.

With a movement she did not try to restrain Lloyd put both her hands over his poor, shapeless wrists.  Never in her life had she been so strongly moved.  Pity, such as she had never known, a tenderness and compassion such as she had never experienced, went knocking at her breast.  She had no words at hand for so great emotions.  She longed to tell him what was in her heart, but all speech failed.

“Don’t!” she exclaimed.  “Don’t!  I will not have you.”

A little later, as they were returning toward the carriages, Lloyd, after a moment’s deliberation upon the matter, said: 

“Can’t I set you down somewhere near your rooms?  Let your carriage go.”

He shook his head:  “I’ve just given up my downtown rooms.  Bennett and I have taken other rooms much farther uptown.  In fact, I believe I am supposed to be going there now.  It would be quite out of your way to take me there.  We are much quieter out there, and people can’t get at us so readily.  The doctor says we both need rest after our shaking up.  Bennett himself—­iron as he is—­is none too strong, and what with the mail, the telegrams, reporters, deputations, editors, and visitors, and the like, we are kept on something of a strain.  Besides we have still a good deal of work to do getting our notes into shape.”

Lewis brought the ponies to the edge of the walk, and Lloyd and Ferriss separated, she turning the ponies’ heads homeward, starting away at a brisk trot, and leaving him in his carriage, which he had directed to carry him to his new quarters.

But at the turn of the avenue Lloyd leaned from the phaeton and looked back.  The carriage was just disappearing down the vista of elms and cottonwoods.  She waved her hand gayly, and Ferriss responded with the stump of one forearm.

On the next day but one, a Friday, Lloyd was to go to the country.  Every year in the heat of the summer Lloyd spent her short vacation in the sleepy and old-fashioned little village of Bannister.  The country around the village was part of the Searight estate.  It was quiet, off the railroad, just the place to forget duties, responsibilities, and the wearing anxieties of sick-rooms.  But Thursday afternoon she expected Bennett.

Thursday morning she was in her room.  Her trunk was already packed.  There was nothing more to be done.  She was off duty.  There was neither care nor responsibility upon her mind.  But she was too joyful, too happily exalted, too exuberant in gayety to pass her time in reading.  She wanted action, movement, life, and instinctively threw open a window of her room, and, according to her habit, leaned upon her elbows and looked out and down upon the square.  The morning was charming.  Later in the day it probably would be very hot, but as yet the breeze of the earliest hours was stirring nimbly.  The cool of it put a brisker note in the sombre glow