could see the wisps of mist curling away from his mouth as he opened his lips. The street was silent. He took a step toward her and she realized that she was not looking far up into his eyes—he was not so much taller than herself as she had imagined. She thought—suddenly aware of the palpitation of her heart—she found herself hoping he would kiss her. She believed he would kiss her, just then, and she let out her hot breath. Mist escaped her expectant lips on the faintest of breezes. 

 They stood for a long moment, facing each other until he turned slowly and stepped forward. Gretchen continued walking beside him with her hand upon his arm. They crossed the street and at last were near her rooming house. She looked up at the falling snow against a gray sky; the tangle of branches above them; the misty pools of light beneath the gaslights. She glanced at his serene face, turning, though she continued to walk. 

 "I believe you almost kissed me back there, did you not Professor?" 

 "So, it's 'Professor' again, is it?"  He smiled the faintest of smiles and looked away down the street.  "Miss Haviland, you did not ask to be kissed—back there."  She turned quickly in front of him to catch his gaze, so that he had to stop.  "Not in so many words," he added, "I mean—you hesitated as much as I." 

 "Fancy that," she replied with a laugh, and began walking again, swinging her legs gaily, letting her skirt billow. 

 He touched her hand, draped over his forearm, and she felt the warmth of his fingers through her glove. They walked on beneath bare branches and quietly falling snow. It seemed far too warm for snow—tropical almost, as if the gaslights were warming the whole scene—the whole world. Winter was about to melt—the sun might even rise the next instant and spring would return in a blaze of gold and green with soft rain, the scent of flowers. 

 "In future, perhaps I _shall_ ask, Professor."  She leaned to grip his arm more tightly and whispered.  "Perhaps I shall." 

 

 

 

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