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For the first time he seemed to wonder what it might be that she had to confess. To perdition with them all. “Home, of course,” she answered. But at the beginning of the affray, when he thought every one was too much occupied with his own concerns to remark his absence, he slipped out of the room, not for the purpose of avoiding the engagement (for cowardice was not one of his failings), but because he had another object in view. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. Something about the girl had suggested an idea. Awkwardly, he closed his eyes and fumbled for a kiss. She looked round wildly, as if seeking some source of help, as the boots halted at the front door and the shouting intensified. But she did not speak. It would be swindling.
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