HE was to sail for Paris the next mornings to be gone a year or two, and he had come to take the last of several farewells of the girl he had known best at college. She came into the lamplit parlor with a warm glow on either cheek and hand outstretched. "I'm so glad you came out," she said, answering the pressure of his fingers with a frank little squeeze; "I was almost afraid you couldn't, with so many last things to do."
"Well, you see," loosing her hand slowly, "you were the last."
"That means, I'm the—oh, how conceited of me!"
"No, exactly. It means you were the best."
"Nice boy! But I sha'n't count it. Sit down here by me—yes, here—and tell me what you have finally decided about living with Professor Dumont's friends."
"Oh, that; I hardly know yet, Mary. Stanwood thinks now that he will get around to Paris by midwinter, and he wants me to come in with him."
"Yes? So you don't want to make hard-and-fast arrangements, of course. You'll like being with Mr. Stanwood, won't you? Only think of the jolly times you'll have!"
"I suppose so"—absently—"oh, yes, of course; but the fact is, Mary, it doesn't look as jolly to me as it did a year ago. You see, I was a perfect kid, then"
"I remember," mischievously.
"And everything suited me perfectly; but now"
"But what, now? You don't mean you are losing your enthusiasm, Morris? I shall be absolutely disgusted with you if you dare to hint such a thing! Remember what all those artists told you; there isn't the least doubt about your gift; and you must not doubt it, not for an instant."
"That's all right, Mary, I didn't mean that. I meant something quite different. But I guess you'd be disgusted with me just the same; never mind it; let me show you"
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