thought I might see you. I felt as if you were at home.”
She stitched a little, and glanced up secretly to watch his face redden, then she continued innocently, “Yes—I felt you had come back. It is funny how one has a feeling occasionally that someone is near; when it is someone one has a sympathy with.” She continued to stitch, then she took a pin from her bosom, and fixed her work, all without the least suspicion of guile.
“I thought I might meet you when I was out——” another pause, another fixing, a pin to be taken from her lips—“but I didn’t.”
“I was at the office till rather late,” he said quickly.
She stitched away calmly, provokingly.
She took the pin from her mouth again, fixed down a fold of stuff, and said softly:
“You little liar.”
Mother had gone out of the room for her recipe book.
He sat on his chair dumb with mortification. She stitched swiftly and unerringly. There was silence for some moments. Then he spoke:
“I did not know you wanted me for the pleasure of plucking this crow,” he said.
“I wanted you!” she exclaimed, looking up for the first time, “Who said I wanted you?”
“No one. If you didn’t want me I may as well go.”
The sound of stitching alone broke the silence for some moments, then she said deliberately:
“What made you think I wanted you?”
