She refused to admit that she did. He pressed her for an answer. "Don’t, Claude," she said at last, disturbed. "I must keep my wits about me today, or I shall be as putty in my mother’s hands." He was bitterly disappointed. Her use of his name was some solace, however; for, as her soft, flexible tones prolonged it, the sound was music to his ears. "Is that why you won’t let me kiss you?" he pursued hopefully. "No. I’m not used to it yet," she said, quite simply. "Not used to it! You mean you haven’t been kissed by men before?" "Nothing so silly. I haven’t been kissed by you before." "Ah, I might have known the reason wasn’t inexperience," he said, with incipient jealousy. "Then why balk at me?" he went on, seizing her hands again. "As I said," she replied, calmly matter-of-fact. "I haven’t had time to think of it. At least, not much nor for long," she added impishly. "I must first see whether I can get used to the idea." "Indeed! But getting used to the idea won’t get you used to the thing itself. Only practice makes perfect." "A rehearsal in dumb show is not to be despised," was her response. And so they bantered on and made pretty speeches, while Claude’s car bucked the wind until they turned into President Street and stopped at the corner of her own block. As Janet got out, she was hard put to it to conceal her sense of loss. At parting, all her matter-of-factness deserted her; for a few seconds she felt like a prisoner half awakened from an idyllic dream. The car drove away with Claude less triumphant yet more satisfied than he had ever felt towards a charming girl before. He was profoundly stirred by the magic of Janet’s genuineness, and her rich, clarinet tones lingered disturbingly in his mind. *CHAPTER NINE* *I* Thoughts of home had flitted intermittently through Janet’s mind during the afternoon’s ride. But her faculty for living securely in the present had been strong enough to send the omens flying as fast as they came. A domestic crisis now confronted her, however, and she knew it could not be evaded. As she crossed the threshold, there was a sudden bristling of her nerves, a parching and aching of her throat, and a sense of utter misery. From Laura, the maid, she learned that her mother had been ill all day, and had kept to her bed. As this was Mrs. Barr’s invariable practice when any member of the family displeased her, Janet was not surprised. She crept quietly upstairs to her room at the top of the house. On the second floor she passed her sister’s room. Through the open door Janet could look into a mirror which reflected an image of Emily, dressing for the evening. She called to her sister with an assumed cheeriness. Emily answered stiffly and without stirring an inch.