The next day he passed the house again. The window shutters were all closed and he did not ring the bell, telling himself that Delia was not at home. He continued to pass the house once or twice every day, without asking for admittance, wondering each time if she were there, or if some one else were with her, or if she really meant that she wanted him to come again. He was amazed that such a beautiful woman had remained without remarrying. He had decided that the slurs cast on her reputation were unjust. She was too innocent-hearted and Bohemian. The narrow minded people who made up the population of the town could not understand her. Jim found her like the heroine of a French novel he had been reading. He dreamed about her at night. * * * * * About three o’clock in the afternoon, a week after his first visit, he passed her house as usual and saw no sign of life. He proceeded down the street and walked a block or two. Then he retraced his steps. As he came by the house again he heard someone call his name. Before he could decide what to do the curtains in a window were parted and Delia’s smiling face confronted him. “Why don’t you come in, Jim?” she called. He hesitated. “Wait, and I’ll unlock the door,” she added, and, with a final smile, left the window. Jim entered the gate, and had not crossed the small lawn when the door was opened. “You mean thing! You wouldn’t have come in at all if I hadn’t called to you!” was her greeting. “I thought you weren’t at home,” he explained. “Well, let’s not talk about it,” she said, shutting the door. “You’re here anyway. I’ve been wondering what had become of you. I thought you had gone out of town. Sit down and tell me about yourself,” she invited, leading the way to the sitting room he remembered so well. “Here! Give me your hat. You’re at home here.” Jim was surprised to feel himself suddenly at ease. Delia chatted volubly, smiling and laughing, without giving him an opportunity to talk about himself. She produced a flattering atmosphere of dependence and admiration that led Jim unconsciously to assume the part of the conquering male. “You didn’t really forget me, did you?” she asked, her ingratiating manner anticipating his reply. “Not quite,” Jim told her with new-found assurance. Delia gazed into his eyes a moment and came over to his chair and, bending down, put her cheek against his. “You didn’t, did you, Jim?” she repeated in a whisper. He drew her to him and kissed her on the mouth. Delia was in a fresh wrapper, with her beautiful hair becomingly arranged, and a scent of violets clung about her. Jim was considerably surprised at his own passion. “You naughty boy!” she cried, laughing. Then she sat on his knees and pulled his hair. Jim kissed her again. This was the beginning of frequent visits which soon became daily. “I see you’re hanging around that Johnson woman,” Jim’s father remarked one evening at supper.