And that is why, several mornings later, she very courageously--for it did take courage--threw this little note over on his desk--they had formed a habit of writing notes to each other, sometimes about the words, sometimes about other things. “IN-VI-TA-TION, _n._ That which Miss Noah extends to Mr. Webster for Friday evening, December second, at the house where she lives--hasn't she already told him where that is? It is the wish of Miss Noah to present Mr. Webster to various other Miss Noahs, all of whom are desirous of making his acquaintance.” She was absurdly nervous at luncheon that day, and kept telling herself with severity not to act like a high-school girl. He was late in returning that noon, and though there seemed a new something in his voice when he asked if he hadn't better sharpen her pencils, he said nothing about her new definition of invitation. It was almost five o'clock when he threw this over on her desk: “AP-PRE-CI-A-TION, _n._ That sentiment inspired in Mr. Webster by the kind invitation of Miss Noah for Friday evening. “RE-GRET, _n._ That which Mr. Webster experiences because, for reasons into which he cannot go in detail, it is impossible for him to accept Miss Noah's invitation. “RE-SENT-MENT, _n._ That which is inspired in Mr. Webster by the insinuation that there are other Miss Noahs in the world.” Then below he had written: “Three hours later. Miss Noah, the world is queer. Some day you may find out--though I hope you never will--that it is frequently the things we most want to do that we must leave undone. Miss Noah, won't you go on bringing me as much of yourself as you can to Dearborn Street, and try not to think much about my not being able to know the Miss Noah of Hyde Park? And little Miss Noah--I thank you. There aren't words enough in this old book of ours to tell you how much--or why.” That night he hurried away with never a joke about how many words she had written that day. She did not look up as he stood there putting on his coat. It was spring now, and the dictionary staff had begun on W. They had written of Joy, of Hope and Life and Love, and many other things. Life seemed pressing just behind some of those definitions, pressing the harder, perhaps, because it could not break through the surface. For it did not break through; it flooded just beneath. How did she know that he cared for her? She could not possibly have told. Perhaps the nearest to actual proof she could bring was that he always saw that her overshoes were put in a warm place. And when one came down to facts, the putting of a girl's rubbers near the radiator did not necessarily mean love. Perhaps then it was because there was no proof of it that she was most sure. For some of the most sure things in the world are things which cannot be proved.