She stared straight ahead of her down the long dim avenue, making no response to his question. The cherries that swung from her hat-brim stirred not a hair's-breadth, but the commotion their stillness caused in Quin's heart was nothing short of cyclonic. "More than when you left Kentucky?" he persisted relentlessly. This time a barely perceptible nod stirred the cherries. "There!" he said triumphantly. "I knew it! Just keep right on the way you are going, and I won't say a word!" "But I haven't given you any encouragement; you mustn't think I have." "I know it. But you haven't turned me down." At this she smiled at him helplessly. "You are not very easy to turn down, Quin." "No," he admitted; "it can't be done." At this moment the bus rounded a sharp corner without slowing up, and the passengers on top were lurched forward with such violence that at least one masculine arm took advantage of the occasion to clasp a swaying lady with unnecessary solicitude. It may have been a second, and it may have been longer, that Quin sat with his arm about Eleanor and his hand clasping hers. Time and space ceased to exist for him and blessed infinity set in. And then---- "Good gracious!" she cried, starting up. "Where are we? I'd forgotten all about our cross-street." As a matter of fact they were in Harlem. All the way back Eleanor refused to be serious about anything. The mischievous, contradictory, incalculable little devil that always lurked in her took full possession. She teased Quin, and laughed at him, leading him on one minute and running to cover the next. When they reached the apartment, she tripped up the five flights as lightly as a bird, and Quin, in his effort to keep up with her, overtaxed himself and paid the penalty. Heart and lungs were behaving outrageously when he reached the top landing, and he had to steady himself by the banister. "Oh, Quin, I ought to have remembered!" Eleanor cried, with what he considered divine compassion. "I can't bear to hear you cough like that! It sounds as if it were tearing you to pieces." "It's nothing!" said Quin, struggling to get his breath. "I'll be all right in a minute. What's the box by the door?" Eleanor's glance followed his. "If that old walrus, Pfingst, has dared to send me flowers again!" she cried, pouncing on the card and holding it so they both could read it. Penciled in small, even lines were the words: Sorry to find the lady-bird flown. Will call up in the morning. H. P. Even in the dimly lighted hall, Quin could see the flush that suffused Eleanor's face. "It's Harold Phipps," she said, trying to be casual. "I--I didn't know he was in town." Quin followed her into the apartment, and stood dully by the table as she untied the box and lifted half a dozen exquisite white orchids from their bed of maidenhair ferns. Then, trying very hard to keep his voice steady, he asked gently: