Nor had Alaire the least reason to
doubt her self-control. Dave, to be sure, had appealed to her
fancy and her interest; in fact, he so dominated her thoughts that
the imaginary creature whom she called her dream-husband had
gradually taken on his physical likeness. But the idea that she
was in any way enamoured of him had never entered her mind; that
she could ever be tempted to yield to him, to be false to her
ideals of wifehood, was inconceivable. In such wise do the Fates
amuse themselves.
Alaire had gone to her favorite after-dinner refuge, a nook on one
of the side-galleries, where there was a wide, swinging wicker
couch; and there in a restful obscurity fragrant with unseen
flowers she had prepared to spend the evening with her dreams.
She did not hear Dave's automobile arrive. Her first intimation of
his presence came with the sound of his heel upon the porch. When
he appeared it was almost like the materialization of her
uppermost thought--quite as if a figure from her fancy had stepped
forth full clad.
She rose and met him, smiling. "How did you know I wanted to see
you?" she inquired.
Dave took her hand and looked down at her, framing a commonplace
reply.
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