"Not now. We'll reserve that pleasure for another time. This
is good enough for me;" and he swung his arms around and gave a
little whoop like an excited rowdy.
A deep crimson dyed for a moment the face of Blanche. In a moment
afterward it was pale as ashes. Whitford saw the death-like change,
and it partially roused him to a sense of his condition.
"Of course I'll go to the library if your heart's set on it," he
said, drawing her arm in his and taking her out of the room with a
kind of flourish. Many eyes turned on them. In some was surprise, in
some merriment and in some sorrow and pain.
"Now for the books," he cried as he placed Blanche in a large chair
at the library-table. "Where are they?"
Self-control has a masterful energy when the demand for its exercise
is imperative. The paleness went out of Blanche's face, and a tender
light came into her eyes as she looked up at Whitford and smiled on
him with loving glances.
"Sit down," she said in a firm, low, gentle voice.
The young man felt the force of her will and sat down by her side,
close to the table, on which a number of books were lying.
"I want to show you Dore's illustrations of Don Quixote;" and
Blanche opened a large folio volume.
Whitford had grown more passive. He was having a confused impression
that all was not just right with him, and that it was better to be
in the library looking over books and pictures with Blanche than in
the crowded parlors, where there was so much to excite his gayer
feelings.
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