“Do not put me to the test,” I pleaded. Then I added what I knew to be true: “But you will not. You know it would take some one stronger than your uncle, stronger than your parents, to swerve me from what I believe right for you and for me.” I had no fear for “to-morrow.” The hour when she could defy me had passed. A long, long silence, the electric speeding southward under the arching trees of the West Drive. I remember it was as we skirted the lower end of the Mall that she said evenly: “You have made me hate you so that it terrifies me. I am afraid of the consequences that must come to you and to me.” “And well you may be,” I answered gently. “For you've seen enough of me to get at least a hint of what I would do, if goaded to it. Hate is terrible, Anita, but love can be more terrible.” At the Willoughby she let me help her descend from the electric, waited until I sent it away, walked beside me into the building. My man, Sanders, had evidently been listening for the elevator; the door opened without my ringing, and there he was, bowing low. She acknowledged his welcome with that regard for “appearances” that training had made instinctive. In the center of my--our--drawing-room table was a mass of fresh white roses. “Where did you get 'em?” I asked him, in an aside. “The elevator boy's brother, sir,” he replied, “works in the florist's shop just across the street, next to the church. He happened to be down stairs when I got your message, sir. So I was able to get a few flowers. I'm sorry, sir, I hadn't a little more time.” “You've done noble,” said I, and I shook hands with him warmly. Anita was greeting those flowers as if they were a friend suddenly appearing in a time of need. She turned now and beamed on Sanders. “Thank you,” she said; “thank you.” And Sanders was hers. “Anything I can do--ma'am--sir?” asked Sanders. “Nothing--except send my maid as soon as she comes,” she replied. “I shan't need you,” said I. “Mr. Monson is still here,” he said, lingering. “Shall I send him away, sir, or do you wish to see him?” “I'll speak to him myself in a moment,” I answered. When Sanders was gone, she seated herself and absently played with the buttons of her glove. “Shall I bring Monson?” I asked. “You know, he's my--factotum.” “_I_ do not wish to see him,” she answered. “You do not like him?” After a brief hesitation she answered, “No.” Not for worlds would she just then have admitted, even to herself, that the cause of her dislike was her knowledge of his habit of tattling, with suitable embroideries, his lessons to me. I restrained a strong impulse to ask her why, for instinct told me she had some especial reason that somehow concerned me. I said merely: “Then I shall get rid of him.” “Not on my account,” she replied indifferently. “I care nothing about him one way or the other.” “He goes at the end of his month,” said I.