They tried to read illustrated papers in an unconcerned manner and with forced attention, lest they should catch the leaping exultation in each other’s eyes. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. He gently took the roses from her and laid them on the pillow. Will you forgive me—if I say no more?” She looked at him with perplexed, earnest eyes. What the editor had to say none of the three cared just then. It was an odd little encounter, that left vague and dubitable impressions in her mind. It was a moment or two before Gerald, opening his eyes on the girl’s astounded expression, recollected himself sufficiently to pull out of the extraordinary impact she’d had on him.
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