She looked at him quickly, a look of sharp, dubious inquiry; then, as she met the amused curiosity of his glance, she gave a little laugh and said: "I was going to make jam." "But you don't make jam out of paper?" "No; those are for the tops of the glasses. I soak them in brandy and put them on, and they preserve it." He looked at the papers, then back at her. As their eyes met the delight each felt in the other's presence found expression in a simultaneous burst of laughter. For a moment they stood facing each other, laughing in foolish but happy lightness of heart. "Now, you know," he said, "I'm a credulous person, but isn't that going too far? Why, if you used all those things you'd have jam enough to feed the American army." Her laughter died, and looking slightly confused, she put out her hand, seized the other door, and drew them together with a bang. "There!" she said, dropping the catch; "you can't see any more. You're too curious, in the first place, and you don't believe me, which is worse." "I've found out the skeleton in the closet," he said, as they walked back into the front room. "It's the colonel's passion for jam. I've heard of a passion for pie running in families, but jam's something new." The bare austerity of this bleak apartment seemed to cast a sudden chill over their high spirits. Gault, sitting in the colonel's chair, reverted in thought to the object of his visit, and wondered how he could turn the conversation in the direction he had intended. His preoccupation, and the sense of shame he felt at the mean part he contemplated playing, made him respond to her conversational attempts with dry shortness. She grew constrained and embarrassed, and finally, in a desperate attempt to arrest a total silence, said: "Don't you like my new cushion? You've never noticed it!" The visitor's slow glance moved in the direction indicated, and rested on a cretonne cushion in one of the wicker chairs. "It's a perfect beauty," he said, with as much enthusiasm as he thought the occasion required. "I'm glad you think it's pretty," she answered, evidently much pleased. "I ought not to have bought it, I suppose, but I do love pretty things." "Why oughtn't you to have bought it? What is the matter with it?" "Nothing; I mean it was an extravagance. I sometimes think how perfectly delightful it would be to be able to go into stores and buy furniture and ornaments and curtains just whenever you wanted." This remark dispelled Gault's preoccupation. He remained in the same position and continued staring at the cushion, but his glance had changed from its absent absorption to a fixed and listening intentness. Viola saw that she had interested him, and continued with happy volubility: