And yet, always in the dark his voice was that of one of the
two men who had talked near her cab. Who was he? Not a single corner
of the veil had he yet lifted, and here it was, the middle of August;
and except for the week at Bar Harbor she had been with him day by day,
laid she knew not how many traps, over which he had stepped serenely,
warily or unconsciously she could not tell which. It made her heart
ache; for, manly and simple as he appeared, honest as he seemed, he was
either a rogue or the dupe of one, which was almost as bad. But to-day
she was determined to learn which he was.
"What have you done with the romance?"
"I have put it away in the bottom of my trunk. The seventh rejection
convinces me that I am not a story-teller."
He had a desperate longing to tell her all, then and there. It was too
late. He would be arrested as a smuggler, turned out of the house as
an impostor.
"Don't give up so easily. There are still ninety-three other editors
waiting to read it."
"I have my doubts. Still, it was a pleasant pastime.
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