her. He might have known her pride did not deal in such petty triumphs. Even then he had not guessed at the truth—that never having had to worry about men she had seldom used the wary subterfuges, the playings out and haulings in, that were the stock in trade of her sisterhood. When she liked a man, that was trick enough. Did she think she loved him—there was an ultimate and fatal thrust. Her charm endlessly preserved itself.
"I was anxious to see you," he said simply. "I want to talk to you—I mean really talk, somewhere where we can be alone. May I?"
"What do you mean?"
He swallowed a sudden lump of panic. He felt that she knew what he wanted.
"I mean, not at a tea table," he said.
"Well, all right, but not to-day. I want to get some exercise. Let's walk!"
It was bitter and raw. All the evil hate in the mad heart of February was wrought into the forlorn and icy wind that cut its way cruelly across Central Park and down along Fifth Avenue. It was almost impossible to talk, and discomfort made him distracted, so much so that he turned at Sixty-first Street to find that she was no longer beside him. He looked around. She was forty feet in the rear standing motionless, her face half hidden in her fur coat collar, moved either by anger or laughter—he could not determine which. He started back.
"Don't let me interrupt your walk!" she called.
"I'm mighty sorry," he answered in confusion. "Did I go too fast?"
"I'm cold," she announced. "I want to go home. And you walk too fast."
"I'm very sorry."
