“Her bedroom’s a bower already,” Hal told him; “you really mustn’t send her any more just yet.” “Does she ask about me?” He awaited the answer breathlessly. “Sometimes. I was telling her only this morning how you’d spent the autumn in New York.” “Did she say anything?” “She was interested.” He could imagine the mischief that had crept into her gray eyes as she had listened to whatever Hal had told her. Why didn’t she send for him? As far as he could learn, she wasn’t hurt--only shaken. He suspected that Mrs. Sheerug was making her an excuse for a bout of nursing. The house went on tiptoe. The door of the spare-room opened and closed softly. He had to see her. It was on the golden evening of the fourth day that he waylaid Hal on the stairs. “Would you please give her this note? I’ll wait. There’ll be an answer. I’m sure of it.” Hal eyed him curiously. Up till now he had been too excited to notice emotion in any one else. For the first time he seemed to become aware of the eagerness with which Teddy mentioned her. He took the note without a word. For several minutes Teddy waited. They seemed more like hours. From the Park across the river came the _ping_ of tennis and the laughter of girls. A door opened. Mrs. Sheerug’s trotting footsteps were approaching. As she came in sight, she lowered her head and blinked at him above the rims of her spectacles. “My grand-daughter says she wants to thank you for the flowers. She insists on thanking you herself. I don’t know whether it’s right. She’s in---- She’s an invalid, you know.” Leaving her to decide this point of etiquette, he hurried along the passage and tapped. He heard her voice and thrilled to the sound. “Now don’t any of you disturb us till I call for you.--Promise?” As Hal slipped out, he left the door open and nodded. “She’ll see you.” Pushing aside the tapestry curtain of Absalom, he entered. A breeze was ruffling the curtains. Against the wall outside ivy whispered. The evening glow, pouring across tree-tops, gilded the faded gold of the harp and filled the room with an amber vagueness. She was sitting up in bed, propped on pillows, with a blue shawl wrapped about her shoulders. She looked such a tiny Desire--such a girl. Her bronze-black hair was braided in a plait and fell in a long coil across the bedclothes. Their eyes met. He halted. Slowly her face broke into a smile. “I wonder which of us has been the worse.” He knelt at her side, pressing her hand. “Which is it, Meester Deek? D’you remember their names? It’s Miss Independence. I wouldn’t kiss it if I were you; it’s an unkind, a scratchy little hand.” He raised his eyes. “Are you very much hurt?” She gazed down at him mockingly. “By the accident or by your letter?--By the accident, no. By your letter, yes. I do feel things deeply--I was feeling them more than ordinarily deeply just then. I didn’t like you when you wrote that.” “But I wrote you so often. I told you how sorry I was. You never answered.”