Romance! The romance of passing faces, of wires that carried voices and words to the far ends of the world, of tremendous mechanisms that propelled ships and trains! And, oh the beautiful books! She swiftly knelt upon the floor and once more gathered the books to her heart. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. "Somebody ought to get hold of that young man," said Prudence, grimly, as she nodded in Spurlock's direction. A dozen books lay upon the counterpane. The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. The loneliness of the place somewhat depressed her. "Can't you see? I can't hurt her, if … if she cares! I can't tell her I'm a madman as well as a thief!… What a fool! What a fool!" A thief. His pale and boyish waist was nearly as slim as her own. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. "I've known him all my life," replied the other. Her mouth dry, she made her feet walk on, not daring to utter a word.
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