Strange, stiff! One darting look, and then eyes down; one convulsive squeeze, then such a formal shake of hot, dry hands, and off he had gone with Felix to his room, and she with Sheila to hers, bewildered, biting down consternation, trying desperately to behave 'like a little lady,' as her old nurse would have put it--before Sheila, especially, whose hostility she knew by instinct she had earned.

All that evening, furtive watching, formal talk, and underneath a ferment of doubt and fear and longing.

All a mistake! An awful mistake! Did he love her?
Heaven! If he did not, she could never face any one again.

He could not love her! His eyes were like those of a swan when its neck is drawn up and back in anger.
Terrible--having to show nothing, having to smile at Sheila, at Dad, and Mother! And when at last she got to her room, she stood at the window and at first simply leaned her forehead against the glass and shivered.
What had she done?
Had she dreamed it all--dreamed that they had stood together under those boughs in the darkness, and through their lips exchanged their hearts?
She must have dreamed it! Dreamed that most wonderful, false dream! And the walk home in the thunder-storm, and his arm round her, and her letters, and his letter--dreamed it all! And now she was awake! From her lips came a little moan, and she sank down huddled, and stayed there ever so long, numb and chilly.

Undress--go to bed?
Not for the world.