Dorothy’s eyes met mine for a moment, and then her long lashes fell. “I’ve been thinking,” she stammered--“thinking--thinking”--I bent forward eagerly--“of our old home on Long Island Sound.” The words came with a rush, as if she had just seized them from the air. “You never went down there, but it is the loveliest place,” she went on hurriedly. “The sea, in a great crescent bay, paved with the whitest sand, and an old colonial house on a little rise.” She was talking at top speed now. “But, Dorothy,” I broke in, “I want you to know--” She gave me no chance to finish. “Tom has a laboratory that he has fitted up down by the shore,” she went on, still more swiftly, the words fairly tumbling over each other, “and we work there when we’re not off on the Black Arrow. When we get back, I’m going straight down; I want to see the place so badly.” “Dorothy,” I began again. “Oh, and did you see the account of the reception at the Ambassador’s,” said Dorothy, as hastily as before. “They had the whole thing twisted upside down; names all tangled up. They got Tom’s name as Professor Thomas Orrington, and you as James.” She stopped short. “How did they get yours?” I asked eagerly. “Did you see that they are tearing up the embankment down by the obelisk?” was the extremely pertinent reply. As all three of us had spent a quarter of an hour a day or two before, watching those same operations, it seemed probable that I had seen them. “But, Dorothy,” I pleaded. “Just a minute, I want to--” Dorothy sprung from her chair and started for the door. “I’m going to find Tom,” she said. “Stop,” I called in a low voice. “‘The man’ is on the other side of the partition walking up and down. Listen!” Dorothy stood still for a moment in the very poise of flight, and we both listened intently. The roar of the city was the only sound. The measured footsteps had ceased. When they had stopped I had no idea. I had proved an unfaithful watcher. “Then, for heaven’s sake, where’s Tom?” I cried, as I rushed to the window. Dorothy, surprised from her attitude, followed me. I gazed from the window up and down the house fronts and street. Tom was nowhere in sight. Dorothy leaned forward beside me to look out and in the intoxication of her immediate presence every idea beside my wish to tell her of my love was swept away. I seized her hand. “Dorothy,” I exclaimed, “you must and shall hear what I am going to say.” Her hand, at first fluttering and striving to escape, gave up its struggle, and she stood silent, listening, with averted head. “Dorothy,” I began again. At that very moment the door flew open and Tom, red and breathless, dashed into the room. Dorothy sprang towards him like a startled fawn, and I was left with outstretched hand, the modern Tantalus of London. Tom was too excited to notice our positions.