“I must,” said she in a low tone.  “It wouldn’t do for him to know you were here.  He has strict ideas—­and is terribly jealous.”

A few seconds of silence, then a knock on the other side of the door.

“Who’s there?” she called.

“I’m a little early,” came in an agreeable, young man’s voice.  “Aren’t you ready?”

“Not nearly,” replied she, in a laughing, innocent voice.  “You’ll have to go away for half an hour.”

“I’ll wait out here on the steps.”

Her eyes were sparkling.  A delicate color had mounted to her skin.  Norman, watching her jealously, clinched his strong jaws.  She said:  “No—­you must go clear away.  I don’t want to feel that I’m being hurried.  Don’t come back until a quarter past four.”

“All right.  I’m crazy to see you.”  This in the voice of a lover.  She smiled radiantly at Norman, as if she thought he would share in her happiness at these evidences of her being well loved.  The unseen young man said:  “Exactly a quarter past.  What time does your clock say it is now?”

“A quarter to,” replied she.

“That’s what my watch says.  So there’ll be no mistake.  For half an hour—­good-by!”

“Half an hour!” she called.

She and Norman stood in silence until the footsteps died away.  Then she said crossly to Norman:  “You ought to have gone before.  I don’t like to do these things.”

“You do them well,” said he, with a savage gleam.

She was prompt and sure with his punishment.  She said, simply and sweetly:  “I’d do anything to keep his good opinion of me.”

Norman felt and looked cowed.  “You don’t know how it makes me suffer to see you fond of another man,” he cried.

She seemed not in the least interested, went to the mirror of the bureau and began to inspect her hair with a view to doing it up.  “You can go in five minutes,” said she.  “By that time he’ll be well out of the way.  Anyhow, if he saw you leaving the house he’d not know but what you had been to see some one else.  He knows you by reputation but not by sight.”

Norman went to her, took her by the shoulders gently but strongly.  “Look at me,” he said.

She looked at him with an expression, or perhaps absence of expression, that was simple listening.

“If you meant awhile ago some such thing as I hinted—­I will have nothing to do with it.  You must marry me—­or it’s nothing at all.”

Her gaze did not wander, but before his wondering eyes she seemed to fade, fade toward colorlessness insignificance.  The light died from her eyes, the flush of health from her white skin, the freshness from her lips, the sparkle and vitality from her hair.  A slow, gradual transformation, which he watched with a frightened tightening at the heart.

She said slowly:  “You—­want—­me—­to—­marry—­you?”

“I’ve always wanted it, though I didn’t realize,” replied he.  “How else could I be sure of you?  Besides—­” He flushed, added hurriedly, almost in an undertone—­“I owe it to you.”