'I am not even brave.'

'Ah, then, if you are afraid, what shall we do?'

She hesitated awhile; then at last - 'You must come to the house,' she said; 'I am not afraid of that.'

'I would rather it were in the Square,' the young man urged. 'You know how empty it is, often. No one will see us.'

'I don't care who sees us. But leave me now.' He left her resignedly; he had got what he wanted. Fortunately he was ignorant that half an hour later, going home with her father, and feeling him near, the poor girl, in spite of her sudden declaration of courage, began to tremble again. Her father said nothing; but she had an idea his eyes were fixed upon her in the darkness. Mrs Penniman also was silent; Morris Townsend had told her that her niece preferred, unromantically, an interview in a chintz-covered parlor to a sentimental tryst beside a fountain sheeted with dead leaves, and she was lost in wonderment at the oddity - almost the perversity - of the choice.