“I was out in the sawdust-box,” he said, “but it got kind of chilly.” Neither of his auditors felt called upon to offer any comment, and presently he added, “I thought I better come in here where it's warmer.” “It's too warm,”' said Margaret, at once. “Mr. Blakely, would you mind opening a window?” “By all means!” the young man responded earnestly, as he rose. “Maybe I'd better open two?” “Yes,” said Margaret; “that would be much better.” But Penrod watched Mr. Blakely open two windows to their widest, and betrayed no anxiety. His remarks upon the relative temperatures of the sawdust-box and the library had been made merely for the sake of creating sound in a silent place. When the windows had been open for several minutes, Penrod's placidity, though gloomy, denoted anything but discomfort from the draft, which was powerful, the day being windy. It was Mr. Blakely's turn to break a silence, and he did it so unexpectedly that Margaret started. He sneezed. “Perhaps--” Margaret began, but paused apprehensively. “Perhaps-per-per--” Her apprehensions became more and more poignant; her eyes seemed fixed upon some incredible disaster; she appeared to inflate while the catastrophe she foresaw became more and more imminent. All at once she collapsed, but the power decorum had over her was attested by the mildness of her sneeze after so threatening a prelude. “Perhaps I'd better put one of the windows down,” Mr. Blakely suggested. “Both, I believe,” said Margaret. “The room has cooled off, now, I think.” Mr. Blakely closed the windows, and, returning to a chair near Margaret, did his share in the production of another long period of quiet. Penrod allowed this one to pass without any vocal disturbance on his part. It may be, however, that his gaze was disturbing to Mr. Blakely, upon whose person it was glassily fixed with a self-forgetfulness that was almost morbid. “Didn't you enjoy the last meeting of the Cotillion Club?” Margaret said finally. And upon Mr. Blakely's answering absently in the affirmative, she suddenly began to be talkative. He seemed to catch a meaning in her fluency, and followed her lead, a conversation ensuing which at first had all the outward signs of eagerness. They talked with warm interest of people and events unknown to Penrod; they laughed enthusiastically about things beyond his ken; they appeared to have arranged a perfect way to enjoy themselves, no matter whether he was with them or elsewhere but presently their briskness began to slacken; the appearance of interest became perfunctory. Within ten minutes the few last scattering semblances of gayety had passed, and they lapsed into the longest and most profound of all their silences indoors that day. Its effect upon Penrod was to make him yawn and settle himself in his chair. Then Mr. Blakely, coming to the surface out of deep inward communings, snapped his finger against the palm of his hand impulsively. “By George!” he exclaimed, under his breath.