” He looked at her intently. What would happen when next morning she returned to Morningside Park? He couldn’t turn her out of doors. The passion of pent-up speech compelled action of some sort. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. Probably the latter, for the thronging ballroom was insufferably hot. Through yet another doorway she observed an ancient silk brocade loom. Until the last moment she was afraid. "There!" she cried, laughing, "that'll teach you to lay hands upon me again. Even now he was not at all sure that she was not playing with him. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes.
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