"Now," thought Vane, "why should Miss Roster send word to him by Miss Thomas?" He felt that he could not be positively rude, so at eight in the evening he presented himself. Miss Thomas was apparently alone in the house. She was sitting in the parlor, with no light but that of the fire, into which she was looking with her deep blue eyes; her face was pale, except that one cheek was rosy with the heat, imperfectly screened from the flame with her fan. She received Vane coldly; he drew up a chair, noticing, as he did so, her foot, which was covered only with a slipper and a thin web of open-work black stocking, and was very pretty. Miss Thomas seemed _distraite_ and depressed; he had never seen her in that mood before, and sought in vain to draw her into conversation. She answered only in monosyllables and still looked dreamily into the fire. Vane felt as if he had unwittingly offended her. Finally, just as he rose to go-- "Why are you so strange to-night?" "I--I?" stammered Vane. "Yes." She lifted her small head and looked full at him. It seemed as if there was a tear lost somewhere in the depth of her eyes. Vane became conscious that he was a brute, and thought for the first time, odd as it may seem, of the walk which he had asked her to take the Sunday before. He had forgotten the walk entirely. "I had suddenly to go to Pittsburg." This was true; but he had returned on the Saturday. And yet he felt that he must say something, if only to suppress his growing inclination to take her hand in his. "What do you mean?" said she wonderingly. They were both sitting; Vane staring at her helplessly. "Why, when I broke our engagement to go to walk----" Truly he was floundering more than ever. "Oh! were we engaged to go to walk?" A pretty mess he had made of it indeed. "I am only too glad you have forgotten," he said; and then rising, with an awkward bow, he got himself and his shattered reputation for _savoir faire_ out of the room. After putting on his overcoat, he turned back to the threshold of the parlor. "Will you go to walk next Sunday?" he asked bluntly. "I must go to church that afternoon. I am so sorry." Vane bowed again, and took his departure more piqued than he was willing to acknowledge. As he went down the steps he heard a few chords upon the piano. It was the beginning of the love-song from Francesca da Rimini. After all, he thought, why should he be offended? She had behaved just as he should have wished her to. He could hardly expect her to acknowledge that she had waited for him in vain. How pretty she had looked in the firelight!