She tried to recall afterward if she had indicated a particular evening for the invitation. There was a vague memory of mentioning Thursday. This was Tuesday... Herriot Cozzens would be in Boston. ***** A servant told her that Mr. Burrage had arrived when she was but half ready. She was, in reality, undecided in her choice of a dress for the evening; but finally she wore soft white silk, with deep, knotted fringe on the skirt, a low cut neck, and a narrow mantle of black velvet. Her hair, severely plain in its net, was drawn back from a bang cut across her brow. As she entered the room where he was standing a palpable admiration marked his countenance. He said nothing, however, beyond a conventional phrase. Such natural reticence had a large part in her acceptance of him; he did nothing that actively disturbed her hypercritical being. He was almost distinguished in appearance. She had a feeling that if it had been different.... Honora distinctly wished for a flamboyant touch about him; it presented a symbol of her command of any situation between them, a reminder of her superiority. The supper went forward smoothly; there were the welcome inevitable reminiscences of the rough fare of California, laughter at the prohibitive cost of beans; and when, at her direction, he lighted a cheroot, and they lingered on at the table, Honora's aloofness was becoming a thing of the past. The smoke gave her an unexpected thrill, an extraordinary sense of masculine proximity. There had been no such blue clouds in the house since her father's death seven years ago. Settled back contentedly, Jason Burrage seemed--why, actually, he had an air of occupying a familiar place. It was bitterly cold without, the room into which they trailed insufficiently warm, and they were drawn close together at an open Franklin stove. The lamps on the mantel were distant, and they had not yet been fully turned up: his face was tinged by the glow of the fire. An intense face. “What are you thinking about--me?” she added coolly. “Nothing,” he replied; “I'm too comfortable to think.” There was a note of surprise in his voice; he looked about as if to find reassurance of his present position. “But if I did it would be this--that you are entirely different from any woman I've ever known before. They have always been one of two kinds. One or the other,” he repeated somberly. “Now you are both together. I don't know as I ought to say that, if it's nice. I wouldn't like to try and explain.” “But you must.” “It's your clothes and your manner put against what you are. Oh hell, what I mean is you're elegant to look at and good, too.” An expression of the deepest concern followed his exclamation. He commenced an apology. Hardly launched, it died on his lips.