No, that would hardly do. It was too bold. He mustn't seem at all crude to her, but mannerly and suave and self-possessed. A girl, and especially one of her sort, would object to crudeness. He must be very courtly, knightly. Flowers on her desk every morning, perhaps, not a card, not a word. A handful of sweet blossoms each day to greet her and bear her silent testimony that there was one who---- She would know, of course, in due time whence they came. Not that he would ever so much as hint at his gifts, but her woman's intuition would tell her. And when she did realize in this way his silent though passionate devotion, she would thank him, gently and sadly, and a bond would be made between them. But then, what if the other people in the office had intuition, too, or saw him bringing in flowers! No, decidedly that wouldn't do. And then--just in time for him to catch the 3:40--a blinding flash of warning illumined his whole being. What if, while he was there shilly-shallying at a summer resort, some other fellow was with her in Chicago at that very moment! "What if"--a ridiculous way to put it. Wasn't it sure in the nature of things, that at that very moment some other man was with her? He caught the 3:40. He would call on her that very evening and if indeed he didn't declare himself bluntly in so many words--hadn't he heard of numberless women who had been won at first sight!--he would at least intimate to her strongly, unmistakably, that she was the object of his respectful consideration and attention. There were others in the field. It was time he declared himself in, too. It wasn't until 5:37, when the train reached Clybourn Junction, that he began to repent his precipitancy. He was going to see her again in the office to-morrow, wasn't he? Wouldn't it look queer if he went out to call on her to-night without warning? She might be wholly unprepared for callers and annoyed. But his presumable rival bobbed up again and spoiled his supper, so after dropping his bag at home, he walked presently into the entry way of 2667 Pearl Avenue. Her name was not on the left side; perhaps she had moved. No, here on the right, floor 3, in letters of glory--"Connor." Above it, "Talbot." Who was Talbot? Married sister, roommate or landlady from whom she sublet? He raised his thumb to the bell. He had never before experienced a moment of such acute consciousness. Wait a second--she might not be in. He walked out and looked up at the third floor right. There was certainly a light, a bright one, and the window was open and the curtain fluttering out. Somebody was in. It might be Talbot. In that case he wouldn't go up or leave his name either. It certainly was none of Talbot's business, whoever Talbot was. He pressed the button under her name. "Yes?" Heavens above, it was she, Georgia, the woman herself. "Yes, who is it!" came the voice once more. "Stevens."