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He broke off sharply. “I beg your pardon, Miss Dallas; I’m delaying you.”

Anne opened the volume, once more hurt and puzzled. Richard Latham was always so equable, so friendly toward her that she could not understand this new mood. The tone of his last words relegated her to the unbridgable distance of his hired secretary.

Anne began to read at the third book, the “Paradise.” Her voice was troubled at first, but Richard smoked rapidly, apparently unconscious of it, he whose ear was ordinarily quick to hear a note of fatigue in her voice.

Anne loved beauty, and in a few moments she had forgotten herself in Dante’s vision; a little longer and she forgot her listener, which was far more. She read on and on until at last Richard put out his hand to check her.

“You are thirsty,” he said in the old gentle way to which Anne was accustomed. “And it is one o’clock. The sun is around on the other side; that means past noon. We shall not lunch till two to-day; I told Stetson to have a carriage here at three. We are going to have a real holiday, you and I. Stetson is of the party in case I feel like walking in unfamiliar places and need his arm. So put up your book and rest till luncheon.”