"Oh, all right. It isn't good for you to sing too much in the open air.
I'll wait till this evening, if you'll be good enough to sing for us
then."
They landed and walked up to the house. As they reached the bend
leading to the entrance path, she stopped and held out the dog, which
had been staring at Stafford and whining at intervals.
"Take it, please. It is fretting for you, and I'd rather not keep it."
"Really?" he said, and she saw his face brighten suddenly. "All right,
if you'd rather. Come here, little man! What's your name, I wonder?
What shall we call him while we've got him?"
"Call him 'Tiny;' he's small enough," she said, with a shrug of her
shoulders.
"Tiny it is!" he assented, brightly. "He'll answer to it in a day or
two, you'll see. I hope you haven't quite spoilt your dress, Miss
Falconer, and won't regret your row!"
She looked at her dress, but there was a sudden significance in her
slow, lingering response.
"I--don't--know!"
As she went up the stairs she looked over the rail and saw Stafford's
tall figure striding down the hall. He was softly pulling the terrier's
ears and talking to it in the language dogs understand and love; and
when she sank into a chair in her room, his face with its manly
tenderness was still before her, his deep musical voice, with its note
of protection and succour, still rang in her ears.
She sat quite motionless for a minute or two, then she rose and went to
the glass and looked at herself; a long, intent look.
"Yes, I am beautiful," she murmured, not with the self-satisfaction of
vanity, but with a calculating note in her voice. "Am I--am I beautiful
enough?"
Then she swung away from the glass with the motion which reminded
Howard of a tigress, and, setting her teeth hard, laughed with
self-scorn; but with something, also, of fear in the laugh.
"I am a fool!" she muttered. "It can't be true. So soon! So suddenly!
Oh, I can't be such a fool!"