“The inference is so odious I refuse to be flattered,” she said, “but you never were good at making pretty speeches. If you’re coming with me”--briskly--“you’ll have to walk. I’m economizing. Uncle Jacob is giving me an allowance, and I’m living on it.” “But you’re rich, or almost rich, in your own right,” said Mr. Ormsby, as they walked along. “The book promises to be preposterously successful, and half the royalties are yours, you know.” Jane grew suddenly frigid. “I beg that you will not refer to that wretched affair,” she said, haughtily. “I have not read your book, and I am not interested in it.” Mr. Ormsby’s face became very downcast. “I was in hopes that you had read it, and that it would explain----” “There is really nothing to explain,” interrupted Jane. “I acted on a reckless impulse, and was bored for my pains. I have no wish to read your book, though”--civilly--“I’m glad for your sake it promises to be a success.” Mrs. De Mille’s fall followed fast on the heels of her little exhibition of pride. A boy hurrying by with a bundle jostled her arm, and the book she had been endeavoring to conceal fell to the pavement. In stooping to recover it, Mr. Ormsby recognized it, but he returned it to her without comment, and Jane perversely chose to feel affronted at his silence. “I met a friend at Mrs. Hardenburgh’s who was quite enthusiastic about the book, and to please her I consented to take it home to read,” she exclaimed, coldly. “I would not bother myself about it, if I were you; it’s a poor thing,” he returned, just as coldly. They walked for a square in silence, a silence that, strange to relate, was not broken first by Jane but by her companion. “I have an explanation to make, and, in spite of the risk I run of further offending you, I must make it,” he said, distantly. “When I wrote that first absurd sketch I did not understand you. I thought that you were as frivolous and as heartless as you appeared on the surface.” “Indeed!” commented Jane, tilting her chin scornfully. “And then something happened----” he paused. “What was it?” she asked, eagerly, and bit her lip in vexation at herself for displaying curiosity. “I’m not going to tell you that,” he responded, coolly, “but it helped me to an understanding of you. And then I was called to New York, and I found when I got back that you had been at the bungalow--you left your handkerchief there, you know--and that you had read the sketch, for the papers were scattered about the floor, and I realized that----” he hesitated. “You realized what?” said Jane, defiantly. “That I loved you,” he concluded, quietly. The acknowledgment was so unexpected that it disconcerted Mrs. De Mille, and she had nothing to say. “I suppose _that_ bores you, too?” he said, half ironically.