She scampered down the hall. She tiptoed into the living-room, and for an hour she brooded, felt faint and ashamed at her bold response to his kiss, yet wanted to feel his sharp-ridged lips again. Sometimes in a bitter frankness she told herself that Walter had never even thought of marriage till their kiss had fired him. She swore to herself that she would not give all her heart to love; that she would hold him off and make him value her precious little store of purity and tenderness. But passion and worry together were lost in a prayer for him. She knelt by the window till her own individuality was merged with that of the city's million lovers. § 3 Like sickness and war, the office grind absorbs all personal desires. Love and ambition and wisdom it turns to its own purposes. Every day Una and Walter saw each other. Their hands touched as he gave her papers to file; there was affection in his voice when he dictated, and once, outside the office door, he kissed her. Yet their love was kept suspended. They could not tease each other and flirt raucously, like the telephone-girl and the elevator-starter. Every day he begged her to go to dinner with him, to let him call at the flat, and after a week she permitted him to come. § 4 At dinner, when Una told her mother that a young gentleman at the office--in fact, Mr. Babson, the editor whose dictation she took--was going to call that evening, Mrs. Golden looked pleased, and said: "Isn't that nice! Why, you never told mother he was interested in you!" "Well, of course, we kind of work together--" "I do hope he's a nice, respectful young man, not one of these city people that flirt and drink cocktails and heaven knows what all!" "Why, uh--I'm sure you'll like him. Everybody says he's the cleverest fellow in the shop." "Office, dear, not shop.... Is he-- Does he get a big salary?" "Why, mums, I'm sure I haven't the slightest idea! How should I know?" "Well, I just asked.... Will you put on your pink-and-white crêpe?" "Don't you think the brown silk would be better?" "Why, Una, I want you to look your prettiest! You must make all the impression you can." "Well, perhaps I'd better," Una said, demurely. Despite her provincial training, Mrs. Golden had a much better instinct for dress than her sturdy daughter. So long as she was not left at home alone, her mild selfishness did not make her want to interfere with Una's interests. She ah'd and oh'd over the torn border of Una's crêpe dress, and mended it with quick, pussy-like movements of her fingers. She tried to arrange Una's hair so that its pale golden texture would shine in broad, loose undulations, and she was as excited as Una when they heard Walter's bouncing steps in the hall, his nervous tap at the door, his fumbling for a push-button.