At this moment a light step sounded on the piazza. Millicent turned her head and saw Graham approaching her. She stepped quickly towards him, forgetting Galbraith, the company, everything and everybody, save that her lover had come to her. As she turned from him, Galbraith reeled suddenly, and would have fallen had not Hal steadied him to a seat. "I fear I am interrupting you," said the artist, in a cool voice, betraying some annoyance. "Indeed, no," cried the girl, "we were only trying the stupid old game of willing people; I have succeeded in magnetizing Mr. Galbraith here." By this time the young lawyer had recovered himself, though he looked strangely pale and agitated. He was somewhat overcome by what had gone before, and was not a little troubled by the power which the tall, straight girl had exercised over him. He rebelled against it, and yet the sensation of giving up his volition, and living for the time only by her will and her thought had not been unmixed with a keen pleasure. If no one had witnessed the affair, above all, if Graham had not seen it, he would not have greatly cared; but though he had no recollection of what he had seen and described in Millicent’s mind, that evening’s experience deepened the vague antipathy he had always felt towards the artist, into a positive dislike. Later, as they walked together alone, Graham asked Millicent if she would magnetize him, to which she replied in the negative. "Do you think that you could succeed?" "I cannot tell; but if I could, I should not be willing to do so." "And yet you threw a spell over that fellow Galbraith?" "Dear, there is a difference; cannot you see?" "No; upon my soul I can’t." "I do not want to command even your thought for an instant; you must think of me to please yourself, not because I will it." "What a strange girl you are, Millicent! Do you really love me so very much?" "I love you better than my own soul." "A dangerous thing, child; do not ever say that to me again." "Why?" "It shocks me; I cannot tell you why." For answer, she gave him a rose from her breast with a childish gesture, as if asking forgiveness. There was an awkwardness, born of an unwonted shyness, in the movement which was more attractive to the artist than the most graceful attitude he had ever seen her assume. He caught the hand with the rose and crushed them both in his two strong palms, as if to hurt her. She smiled, though her wrist reddened from the sudden pressure. It is more sweet to bear pain from those we love, than to receive kindness from a hand which is not dear. As Graham was taking his leave, he asked Millicent for two books which she had promised to lend him. Barbara had joined them, and offered to fetch them for him. "Thank you, Barbara, but I know just where they are." "Is it not the Petrarch and your manuscript translation of Dante that Mr. Graham wants?" "Yes."