And with the acuteness of his desperation he perceived that she was aware of the effectiveness of the drooping of her head. That made him angry, though he knew not why. "It's so hot in here," she resumed; "will you take me home? It would be nice to walk. The others will drive." She explained to her mother, and René followed her, torn between expectancy and alarm. At the door he met M'Elroy. For a moment he was delighted to see that hero, saw in him an agent of relief. "It's too bad, Linda," said M'Elroy; "I haven't had a word with you all evening." "Well? There are other evenings, and we are both so young." She said this with a rather pretty German accent, the assumption of which seemed to infuriate M'Elroy, for he flung off with an angry "All right!" and left them. Linda smiled slowly to herself, and René was conscious of a doom settling on himself, and all his hope seemed to have gone with M'Elroy. They parted to go to their respective cloakrooms, and René told himself that she would change her mind, would dismiss him also and wait for her mother, that what his eyes had seen he had not seen, that, after all, Linda desired of him nothing but the common civility of his escort. But all his attempted evasions only excited him the more, and by the time he met Linda again at the door he was speechless and in a sweat. The night was cool, clouded, and dark. René walked very fast. "I can't keep this up," said Linda, and he dropped to a crawl. "That's better," she said with a sigh, as they walked down the nigh empty streets. "Oh, dear, I should be so sorry if you hadn't been happy." "I--I was happy. I loved the music." "You can tell almost everything in music." "If you have anything to tell." "How droll you are--so literal." "Miss Brock----" said René. They were walking very slowly now. They had turned down the last lighted street before the darkness of Galt's Park. It gaped before them, inviting, menacing, romantic, rousing him to a mood of antagonism to the growing fascination she was exercising over him. "Droll?" he said. "I don't know. I mean what I say, though. I can't always say what I mean." "Who can?" asked she. "I mean, suppose you have a feeling for anything, for your father or your mother or something beautiful, and the feeling is so big that it can't get out----" "One gets to think," said Linda in a quiet little voice, soothing, caressing, "that men don't have feelings like that." They passed through the gates into the darkness of the Park. They walked on in silence, slower, slower, till they came to a weeping tree that hung right over the footpath. Here they stopped altogether. The blood beat at his temples, he was near choking, and there was Linda in his arms and he had kissed her, shyly, coolly, almost defiantly. It was soon over, but she lingered, and out of the darkness came her voice saying: "But you are the drollest dear." Stung into a passionate desire to justify his situation, he cried: