“Do you feel the draught?” asked Horace.

“I like it.”

“I am afraid you will catch cold.”

“I don’t catch cold at all easily.”

“The wind is very damp,” argued Horace, with increasing confidence.  He grew very bold.  He seized upon one of her little white hands.  “I won’t believe it unless I can feel for myself that your hands are not cold,” said he.  He felt the little soft fingers curl around his hand with the involuntary, pristine force of a baby’s.  His heart beat tumultuously.

“Oh—­” he began.  Then he stopped suddenly as Rose snatched her hand away and again gazed at the moon.

“It is a beautiful night,” she remarked, and the harmless deceit of woman, which is her natural weapon, was in her voice and manner.

Horace was more obtuse.  He remained leaning eagerly towards the girl.  He extended his hand again, but she repeated, in her soft, deceitful voice, “Yes, a perfectly beautiful night.”

Then he observed Sylvia Whitman standing beside them.  “It is a nice night enough,” said she, “but you’ll both catch your deaths of cold at this open window.  The wind is blowing right in on you.”

She made a motion to close it, stepping between Rose and Horace, but the young man sprang to his feet.  “Let me close it, Mrs. Whitman,” said he, and did so.

“It ain’t late enough in the season to set right beside an open window and let the wind blow in on you,” said Sylvia, severely.  She drew up a rocking-chair and sat down.  She formed the stern apex of a triangle of which Horace and Rose were the base.  She leaned back and rocked.

“It is a pleasant night,” said she, as if answering Rose’s remark, “but to me there’s always something sort of sad about moonlight nights.  They make you think of times and people that’s gone.  I dare say it is different with you young folks.  I guess I used to feel different about moonlight nights years ago.  I remember when Mr. Whitman and I were first married, we used to like to set out on the front door-step and look at the moon, and make plans.”

“Don’t you ever now?” asked Rose.

“Now we go to bed and to sleep,” replied Sylvia, decisively.  There was a silence.  “I guess it’s pretty late,” said Sylvia, in a meaning tone.  “What time is it, Mr. Allen?”

Horace consulted his watch.  “It is not very late,” said he.  It did not seem to him that Mrs. Whitman could stay.

“It can’t be very late,” said Rose.

“What time is it?” asked Sylvia, relentlessly.

“About half-past ten,” replied Horace, with reluctance.

“I call that very late,” said Sylvia.  “It is late for Rose, anyway.”

“I don’t feel at all tired,” said Rose.

“You must be,” said Sylvia.  “You can’t always go by feelings.”

She swayed pitilessly back and forth in her rocking-chair.  Horace waited in an agony of impatience for her to leave them, but she had no intention of doing so.  She rocked.  Now and then she made some maddening little remark which had nothing whatever to do with the situation.  Then she rocked again.  Finally she triumphed.  Rose stood up.  “I think it is getting rather late,” said she.