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Jerome was gone–and he let Harriet Warren laugh at her and he would never come back to her. Well, it did not matter, but she had been a fool. Only it had never occurred to her that Jerome could act so.

“If I’d thought he would I mightn’t have been so sharp with him,” was as far as she would let herself go even in thought.

When four weeks had elapsed Jerome came over one Saturday night. He was fluttered and anxious, but hid it in a masterly manner.

Anne was taken by surprise. She had not thought he would ever come again, and was off her guard. He had come around the porch corner abruptly as she stood there in the dusk, and she started very perceptibly.

“Good evening, Anne,” he said, easily and unblushingly.

Anne choked up. She was very angry, or thought she was. Jerome appeared not to notice her lack of welcome. He sat coolly down in his old place. His heart was beating like a hammer, but Anne did not know that.

“I suppose,” she said cuttingly, “that you’re on your way down to the bridge. It’s almost a pity for you to waste time stopping here at all, any more than you have of late. No doubt Harriet’ll be expecting you.”

A gleam of satisfaction flashed over Jerome’s face. He looked shrewdly at Anne, who was not looking at him, but was staring uncompromisingly out over the poppy beds. A jealous woman always gives herself away. If Anne had been indifferent she would not have given him that slap in the face.

“I dunno’s she will,” he replied coolly. “I didn’t say for sure whether I’d be down tonight or not. It’s so long since I had a chat with you I thought I’d drop in for a spell. But of course if I’m not wanted I can go where I will be.”

Anne could not get back her self-control. Her nerves were “all strung up,” as she would have said. She had a feeling that she was right on the brink of a “scene,” but she could not help herself.

“I guess it doesn’t matter much what I want,” she said stonily. “At any rate, it hasn’t seemed that way lately. You don’t care, of course. Oh, no! Harriet Warren is all you care about. Well, I wish you joy of her.”

Jerome looked puzzled, or pretended to. In reality he was hugging himself with delight.

“I don’t just understand you, Anne,” he said hesitatingly “You appear to be vexed about something.”

“I? Oh, no, I’m not, Mr. Irving. Of course old friends don’t count now. Well, I’ve no doubt new ones will wear just as well.”

“If it’s about my going to see Harriet,” said Jerome easily “I don’t see as how it can matter much to you. Goodness knows, you took enough pains to show me you didn’t want me. I don’t blame you. A woman has a right to please herself, and a man ought to have sense to take his answer and go. I hadn’t, and that’s where I made my mistake. I don’t mean to pester you any more, but we can be real good friends, can’t we? I’m sure I’m as much your friend as ever I was.”

Now, I hold that this speech of Jerome’s, delivered in a cool, matter-of-fact tone, as of a man stating a case with dispassionate fairness, was a masterpiece. It was the last cleverly executed movement of the campaign. If it failed to effect a capitulation, he was a defeated man. But it did not fail.

Anne had got to that point where an excited woman must go mad or cry. Anne cried. She sat flatly down on a chair and burst into tears.

Jerome’s hat went one way and his cane another. Jerome himself sprang across the intervening space and dropped into the chair beside Anne. He caught her hand in his and threw his arm boldly around her waist.