During this next week--the week Frances was on the ocean and sailing toward him--he gained in confidence day by day. Miss Winthrop was so absolutely sure of her point of view that it was difficult in her presence to have any doubts. Frances was due to arrive on Monday, and for Sunday he had arranged at Jacques' a very special little dinner for Miss Winthrop. Miss Winthrop herself did not know how special it was, because all dinners there with him were special. There were roses upon the table. Their odor would have turned her head had it not been for the realization that her trunk was all packed and that to-morrow morning she would be upon the train. She had written to an aunt in Maine that she was coming--to this particular aunt because, of the three or four she knew at all, this aunt was the farthest from New York. As for him, he had forgotten entirely that Monday marked the beginning of her vacation. That was partly her fault, because for the last week she had neglected to speak of it. Ordinarily she did not permit him to come all the way back to the house with her; but this night he had so much to talk about that she did not protest. Yes, and she was too weak to protest, anyway. All the things he talked about--his fears, his hopes, speculations, and doubts--she had heard over and over again. But it was the sound of his voice to which she clung. To-morrow and after to-morrow everything would be changed, and she would never hear him talk like this again. He was excited to-night, and buoyant and quick with life. He laughed a great deal, and several times he spoke very tenderly to her. They had reached her door, and something in her eyes--for the life of him he could not tell what--caused him to look up at the stars. They were all there in their places. "Look at 'em," he said. "They seem nearer to-night than I've ever seen them." [Illustration: "I GUESS WOMEN ARE DIFFERENT FROM MEN"] She was a bit jealous of those stars. It had been when with her that he had first seen them. "You aren't looking," he complained. She turned her eyes to the sky. To her they seemed farther away than ever. "Maybe Frances is looking at those same stars," he said. She resented the suggestion. She turned her eyes back to the street. "Where's the star I gave you?" he asked. "It's gone," she answered. "Have you lost it?" "I can't see it." "Now, look here," he chided her lightly. "I don't call that very nice. You don't have a star given you every night." "I told you I didn't need to have them given to me, because I could take all I wanted myself. You don't own the stars too." "I feel to-night as if I did," he laughed. "I'll have to pick out another for you." He searched the heavens for one that suited him. He found one just beyond the Big Dipper, that shone steadily and quietly, like her eyes. He pointed it out to her. "I'll give you that one, and please don't lose it." She was not looking. "Do you see it?" he insisted.