It would seem that with all that has been written about love by both philosophers and romanticists; with all the lovers there have been in the world since the world began who have recorded their experiences in song and story and memoirs; with all that a man sees and hears of love with his own ears and his own eyes before he has reached twenty, there should be little chance left for speculation on the part of any one. And yet here was Allston, who had read a good bit and had seen a good bit, unable to recognize it either in himself or in others. It was as though he found himself in some newly discovered land about which he must feel his way cautiously lest he lose his direction. It was as though he were upon some untried venture. He had, of course, a sentimental notion of what love meant, but this did not seem to the point. It was not that which had made him reach for Wilmer’s hand. He had said at the time he could not explain his act, and that was true. His impulse had come from deep within. But stranger than this was the effect this brief contact produced in him. The effrontery of it, which had at first startled them both, she seemed ready to forgive, and this, in turn, allowed him to forget that crass feature. But this by no means settled the matter. Their relations were not what they had been before. He saw this in her eyes suddenly grown timid; he felt it in his own changed attitude when with her. She had become, he would have said, more human. Until now she had been no more than an intellectual pastime, like a pleasant and not too baffling problem in chess. He had enjoyed moving this way and that in order to see how she would respond. When he made her smile, he felt that he had scored Check, although more often than not she moved easily out of danger. This seemed like an amusing and safe diversion for them both. With nothing at stake it mattered little who won. But the touch of her warm fingers--brief as it was--had proved her of flesh and blood. It seemed strange after this that he had ever doubted it. On the walk home from the cove that late afternoon he was conscious of it every minute. He saw her try to resume the old game at the point where it had been so rudely interrupted and saw her fail, though he did his best to help her. He himself tried and failed. For long intervals they walked in silence--a dangerous silence. That evening she came down to supper light-heartedly enough and in a pretty new gown. For the first time since his stay here Allston could have told with some detail just what she wore. It was a light, gauzy thing of a bluish tint with rosebuds peeping out from the skirt beneath. Her hair was done high and fastened with a large tortoise-shell comb. The walk had so crimsoned her cheeks that her father noticed it. “You’re looking very fine to-night,” he said. “Thank you, dad,” she answered.