and yet—she had hesitated so long, she couldn't snatch her hand away now, could she? It would be crude, awkward. She sat in suspense, unconscious of what was flashing on the screen before her. She sat in exhilarating and torturing suspense for what seemed hours and hours, not daring to quiver as much as a finger of the hand this strange man held. It was not until people were beginning to stand up to go that her hand was free again, released by the stranger's own accord at last.
He would not look at her afterward. He could not speak, it seemed. Walking beside her the dark way back to the Women's Alliance, he hung his head, slunk along. His good-night was nothing but an unintelligible murmur.
Later, Reba in her room held up the hand that had been held close, to the electric light by her chiffonier. It glowed deep pink. She looked it over—back and front—wonderingly.
"I'm glad! I'm glad!" she whispered defiantly.
The next morning brought a letter to Reba. It was written in a neat, careful hand. There were no words misspelled. Its grammar was flawless.
Miss Rebecca Jerome
My dear Miss Rebecca Jerome:
I will come to-morrow night to see you at seven o'clock.
That was all. It was brief, so brief that it breathed its importance. Reba's folk-dancing class met that night, but she must see Mr. Nathaniel Cawthorne, of course. There was no doubt about that. But where
