Any reasonably careful person might be expected to write his name in the front of a book--particularly a French book--before abandoning it to the mercies of a foreign hotel.

But the several fly leaves were immaculately innocent of all sign of ownership.
So intent was she upon this examination, that she did not hear footsteps approaching down the long arbor that led from the house; so intent was the young man upon a frowning scrutiny of the path before him, that he did not see Constance until he had passed from the arbor into the grove.
Then simultaneously they raised their heads and looked at each other.

For a startled second they stared--rather guiltily--both with the air of having been caught.

Constance recovered her poise first; she nodded--a nod which contained not the slightest hint of recognition--and laughed.
"Oh!" she said.

"I suppose this is your book?
And I am afraid you have caught me red-handed.