"Here's to your good health, Miss Birtwell, and to yours, Ellis,"
drinking as he spoke. Whitford drained his glass, but Blanche did
not so much as wet her lips. Her face had grown paler.

"If you do not take me out, I must go alone," she said, in a voice
that made itself felt. There was in it a quiver of pain and a pulse
of indignation.

Lovering lost nothing of this. As his college friend made his way
from the room with Blanche on his arm, he stood for a moment in an
attitude of deep thought, then nodded two or three times and said to
himself:

"That's how the land lies. Wine in and wit out, and Blanche troubled
about it already. Engaged, they say. All right. But glass is sharp,
and love's fetters are made of silk. Will the edge be duller if the
glass is filled with wine? I trow not."

And a gleam of satisfaction lit up the young man's face.

With an effort strong and self-controlling for one so young, Blanche
Birtwell laid her hand upon her troubled heart as soon as she was
out of the supper-room, and tried to still its agitation. The color
came back to her cheeks and some of the lost brightness to her eyes,
but she was not long in discovering that the glass of wine taken
with his college friend had proved too much for the already confused
brain of her lover who began talking foolishly and acting in a way
that mortified and pained her exceedingly. She now sought to get him
into the library and out of common observation. Her father had just
received from France and England some rare books filled with art