ISS HARBORER was twenty-one and very hard-hearted, a fact that was completely obscured to most of her friends by her low voice, her gentle manner, and her very soft little hand. Only a small number of the opposite sex, who were said to have had experience, declared that under this pleasing exterior lurked the implacable coldness of the frozen North.
She had even been known to admit that she did not believe in love, certainly not in love at first sight. The question, however, had had for her merely an academic interest until the night before. Then a strange thing had happened; or, rather, so little had happened that that in itself was strange.
She had gone to a dance just like any other dance, and had met a young man not, perhaps, just like every other young man, and they had danced together. They had, as a matter of fact, danced a great deal together; but the point was that they had not talked at all.
This at the time had seemed natural. When he came again and again to ask her to dance, he had only smiled, as much as to say, "Well, between you and me everything is all right."
Since then Miss Harborer had debated whether that was not perhaps his regular way of smiling at every one.
Anyhow, he had not spoken even when she bade him good night, though that was the instant at which she had been absolutely certain he would say, "Are n't we to see each other again?" or "When may I see you?" or some of those useful and well-worn phrases with which she had grown almost too familiar in the course of the last few years.
But he had said nothing, and as he released her hand in silence, it was Miss Harborer who said, contrary to her custom and not a little to her own surprise:
"Why don't you come and see me some time?"
Then indeed he had shown that he could use words, if few in number, at least clear in meaning.
"To-morrow at five," he had said. And now it was to-morrow and five minutes before five!
Fortunately, the young man was spared the knowledge that Miss Harborer's dominating feeling was regret that she had asked him to come. She saw now that it was only her obstinacy that had been involved; it had seemed queer of him not to suggest it himself. If he had asked to come, she would very likely have put him off.
"What a silly thing to do!" she thought. He had been a pleasant dancing companion, but might, probably would, be tiresome to talk to. People were so different sitting in chairs, making conversation.
She thought nothing would be so agreeable as to go up-stairs and take a hot bath, and then lie down and read a new novel that had been sent her; the heroine was supposed to be a portrait of herself.
She might still do this, and leave word at the door—
A ring at the bell. Miss Harborer was no friend to these refined modern bells that tinkle far away where no one can hear them but the servants. This one was plainly audible. At least he was punctual.
In about half a minute he would be in the room. What would he say? She thought she knew. He would say in a tone of somewhat forced interest that it had been a very good party the night before, had n't it? And she would say, "One lump or two?" Oh, she had been through it all so many times!
The door opened. It was the servant with a note.
From him, to say he was n't coming?
No, a mere invitation to dinner. Miss Harborer threw it on the tea-table.
Her attention was now attracted by the discovery that though the room was warm, her hands were as cold as ice. It was a bad sign—a particularly bad sign in a civilization where hand-shaking is the custom, for the other person is bound to find it out. The only question was. Had he sufficient knowledge to be elated? The things men knew about girls' psychology were so queer and so uncertain, sometimes so much, sometimes so little!
Taking no chances, however, she rose and warmed her hands at the fire until a more normal temperature had been restored, at least for the time.
When she sat down again she found a curious change had come over her. All the incidents of the evening before had suddenly ceased to exist. It was exactly as if there had been no ball, no young man. She was waiting for a total stranger. She might not recognize him when he came in. She would have no clue but his name. Fortunately she remembered his name—Mr. Grey. Mr. Grey. She said it aloud, hoping to rouse some more vital recollection; but it fell dead. The thing was over.
Another ring. This time a visitor.
The servant announced "Mr. Jenkins."