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THE STRAND MAGAZINE. 
Ci If you refuse,” he said, with a frail smile, 
“ I’ll send all my sisters to call upon you. 
I have an aunt, too.” 
At that she laughed, but her reply was 
serious. 
“ 1 will go with you, Mr. Wells, on con- 
dition that 1 pay my share.” 
He looked so cornered that her heart 
softened. 
“ I don’t mean that I insist on paying on 
the spot,” she. said. “ But you will give me 
your word to accept my share before I go 
back to Boston.” 
Timothy gave it with reluctance, admitting 
to himself that there was no other way. To 
attempt to force his entertainment on this 
girl would, he assured himself, be worse than 
ungentlemanly. 
u Very well. Miss Gale, it shall be as 
you wish. 1 am glad you permit my escort.” 
c< Oh, T don't mind telling you that I am 
glad to have your escort, Mr. Wells. After 
all,” she laughed, “ from what I noticed last 
night. I am not so bent on absolute independ- 
ence so far as theatres and restaurants are 
concerned. Isn’t that a shameful admission 
after my remarks of yesterday ? ” 
It is a strange fact that despite the grand 
opportunity now given him Timothy did not 
even attempt to re-introduce the subject of 
his sisters. Instead he cried, a little wildly, 
“ Then may I look after you every evening ? ” 
“ Have not you anything else to do with 
your evenings ? ” she asked, amused. 
“ Nothing whatever. I’m a lonely fellow, 
as a rule. You have no idea what a pleasure 
it would be to me.” 
“ Perhaps,” she said, demurely, “ we had 
better leave it an open question.” 
And with that he had to be content. 
“ Where are you going now ? ” he inquired. 
“ I am going to Kew this fine morning. 
I promised Uncle John to see the gardens.” 
“ I know the gardens very well indeed,” 
said Timothy, all of a twitter. “ Let — let me 
go with you.” 
“ Oh ! But your business ? ” 
” It belongs to me. I don’t belong to it 
— to-day, at any rate.” 
Somehow she could not deny him. After 
all, his kindly companionship was better 
than solitude, and did not interfere with her 
plans. 
So Timothy telephoned to his office a 
message new to his clerks : “ Shall not be at 
business to-day,” and they set out for Kew. 
For nigh a week Timothy lived in a state 
which may best be described as one wild thrill. 
He was like a man long blinded brought 
suddenly to behold a beautiful world. His 
days and nights were ecstasies ; he lived only 
for the present. He did not stop to ask him- 
self where he was going. He worshipped a 
goddess, and adoration so filled his soul that 
there was no room for the cravings of self. 
But on the evening of the seventh day the 
change came. It came all in a breath. 
They were sitting in the theatre, and his eyes 
had strayed — not for the first time — from 
the stage to her face. The play was a sad 
one, and there were tears in her eyes. And 
in that instant she was no more a goddess, 
but a woman — the woman he wanted to have 
near him for ever and ever. Perhaps she 
noticed some alteration in his manner as he 
bade her good-night at the hotel entrance, 
for she would make no promise for a meeting 
on the following day. Yet it was a memory 
of her eyes, rather than of her words, that he 
took home with him. “ Only three days 
more,” he had sighed, and she had echoed 
his words with a smile on her lips — only on 
her lips. He had perceived that much. 
That night he faced himself and his life. 
Apart altogether from the shortness of their 
acquaintance, had he the right to speak to 
her before she left London ? Timothy was 
not ignorant of his own affairs ; he knew 
exactly what he was worth. If he stopped 
giving away money he was worth at least a 
thousand pounds a year. It was not a great 
offering, but it gave him, he thought, the 
right to speak. 
He must speak ! Though the chances 
against his winning her were a million to one 
he would speak. If she could not answer him 
before she left London, he would seek her 
later in her home. It seemed to him that 
without her nothing in the world was worth 
having. Yes ; he would set his affairs in 
order, and on the last night of her stay — he 
dared not sooner — he would speak. 
The last night came quickly enough. She 
had graciously allowed him to act as host that 
evening. She was merry at dinner, merry at 
the Gaiety, which theatre she had chosen for 
her final outing. The hours slipped away 
without his finding an opening for a serious 
sentence. 
But as he handed her from the cab at the 
Savoy he whispered, desperately : “ May I 
come in for a minute ? I have something to 
tell you.” 
“ No, no — not to-night,” she replied, 
faintly. 
“ To-morrow — before you go ? ” 
There was no answer. A touch of her hand 
