Not until the shores of England had faded behind him did he realize the decisiveness of the step he had taken. Divorced from his familiar surroundings, in the No-Man’s-Land of shipboard, he had an opportunity of taking an outsider’s view of his actions. Now that there was no going back, a fatalistic calm settled down on him. During the past weeks he had lived in a tempest of speculations, of wild hopes and unreasonable doubts. He had had to hide his emotions, and yet had dreaded lest they were suspected. The fear of ridicule had been heavy upon him. He had walked on tiptoe, always listening for a voice which never answered. Now at last he regained self-possession.

Lying lazily in his steamer-chair, with the sun-dazzled vacancy of ocean before him, the bigness of life came acutely home to him. Looking back over his few years, he saw that the supreme need for great living is charity—to be content to love, as Madame Josephine would put it. He saw something else: that life has amazing recuperative powers and that no single defeat is overwhelming. Disappointment only becomes overwhelming when it is used for bitterness, as it was used by Hal.

“Life’s an eternal picking one’s self up and going forward,” he told himself.

And so, if the unthinkable were to befall him, and he were to fail to make Desire love him—— He couldn’t believe that love could ever fail to awaken love—not the kind of love he had for her; but, lest that disaster should happen and that he might prevent it from crushing him, he tried not to take the purpose of his voyage too seriously. He pretended to regard it cavalierly as an adventure. He schooled himself in the knowledge that he might not be wanted. Except for her having said, “Come to America if you really care,” he had no grounds for supposing that she would want him. Why should he be anything to her? She was only something to him because, by reason of her parentage, she had appealed powerfully to his imagination at the chivalrous period of adolescence. He had woven his dreams about her memory, clothed it with affection and brought it with him up to manhood; then, by pure accident, he had met her. She herself had warned him that he did not love the actual Desire, but the magic cloak in which he had enfolded her. Perhaps most men did that—worshiped a fantastic ideal, till they became sufficiently humble to set out in search of reality.

It didn’t follow that, because the child-Desire had cared for him, the Desire of twenty was still fond of him. It was that supposition that had made him so precipitate in his own actions, and so unreasonable in his expectations of hers. She had cared for him so little that she had been in England since April and hadn’t troubled to discover him. Well, if he found that she didn’t care for him now, he would make his business the excuse for his voyage and return directly it was ended. He wasn’t going to repeat Hal’s humiliating performance and give himself hopelessly. He couldn’t, if he would. He knew that ultimately, if a woman didn’t choose to make herself important, his work would take him from her. That, at least, was his compensation for being an artist and over-sensitive: when reality had made him suffer, his dreams would again claim him. So, having assured himself many times that he was calm, he came to believe that he was fortified against disillusion and would remain unshaken by it.

He was living up to her test by coming to America—proving to her beyond a doubt that he really did care. A few days would be sufficient to let him know precisely how much that meant to her. At worst, he would have enriched himself by an experience. And at best—at best, he would have gained the thing which in all the world was most precious to him.

Thus armed with the cardboard weapons of a sham cynicism, he allowed himself to wander, like a knight-errant, still deeper into the haunted forest of his imagination. And there, as is the way with knight-errants, he grew impatient with his caution. Why should he strive so desperately to rein in his passion with doubts—this strange and wonderful passion that was so new to him? Of course she had wanted him. At this very moment she was thinking of him—ticking off the hours till they should be together. If she hadn’t written, hadn’t cabled, had ignored him entirely, it was because—— Perhaps because in the early stages women show their love by hiding it, just as men show theirs by displaying it A man’s excitement is to win; a woman’s to be won. Perhaps! He smiled humorously; he had invented so many motives for her silence. The obvious motive he had overlooked—that it was her silence that was compelling him to her.

Probably his ardor had frightened her. Their introduction had been so unusual that it afforded no basis for correspondence, though he had shut his eyes to that. If Desire were here, and he were to ask her why she hadn’t written, she would probably crouch her chin against her shoulder and tell him, “It isn’t done in the best families.”

It wasn’t. But in New York conditions would be different. Vashti would be there. Vashti for whom he had saved his marriage-box. Vashti who could make Mrs. Sheerug believe that she was good only when she sang. Vashti whose voice was like a beanstalk ladder by which lovers might escape to the stars. Did she remember The Garden Enclosed, and how his boyish kiss had changed her painted lips from an expression of brooding to one of kindness? Odd to think of her as Desire’s mother! “My beautiful mother!” Vashti would be generous; already he was counting on her alliance. When Desire had her mother’s consent, she would no longer want to conceal her affection.

His optimism caught fire. It was a wonderful world to which he was sailing—a world of enchantment.- She might be on the dock to meet him. Would she look very altered with her hair done like a woman’s? How would a modern dress suit her? What fun it would be to go wandering through a strange city at her side!

His thoughts ran madly ahead. Marriage!’ Where would they live? Would Vashti want them to stay in America? Anyway, they’d go back to Eden Row for their honeymoon. Hal would be happy at last In time he might meet Vashti. They might learn to love each other afresh, and then——

He drew up sharply, assuring himself gravely that all these peeps into the future were highly problematic. The chances were that in two weeks’ time he’d be sailing on the return-journey, doing his best to forget that he had ever believed himself in love.

The blue trackless days passed quickly, while his mood alternated between precautionary coldness and passionate anticipation. His thoughts spread their wings, beating up into the unknown in broad flights of fancy.

The last morning. He had scarcely slept. The throb of the engines was slower. Overhead he could hear the creaking of pulleys, and the commotion of trunks being raised from the hold and piled upon the deck. He rose with the first flush of dawn to see the wraith of land stealing nearer. He had the feeling that, in so doing, he was proving his loyalty. Somewhere, over there to the westward, her eyes were closed and she was dreaming of him. It was his old idea that their thoughts could reach out and touch.

His heart was in his throat. He paced up and down in a vain endeavor to keep it quiet. Gulls, skimming the foam with shrill cries, seemed her messengers. Through the pearl-colored haze white shipping passed noiselessly. The sun streamed a welcome.

As they crept up the harbor, he could no longer disguise his excitement. It nearly choked him. He seemed disembodied; he was a pair of eyes. His soul ran out before him. He felt sure she would be waiting for him. He saw nothing of the panting little tugs, which pulled and shoved the liner to her moorings. He hardly noticed the man-made precipices of New York, rising like altar-steps to a shrine of turquoise. He was straining his eyes toward the gaps in the dock-shed, white with clustered indistinguishable faces. One of them must be hers. It seemed wrong that, even at this distance, he should not be able to pick her out As they moved slowly alongside, he kept persuading himself that he had found her and waved furiously—only to realize that he had been mistaken.

He passed down the gang-plank with eager eyes, asking himself: “How shall I greet her? What will she expect me to say to her?” On every side, friends were darting forward, shaking hands, clasping each other and not caring who witnessed their emotional gladness. At any minute he might see her pressing through the crowd.

He had been searching for her for half-an-hour. “If your friends have come to meet you,” an official told him, “they’ll look for you where your baggage is examined. What’s your name? Gurney. Well, they’ll be waiting for you under the letter G., if they’re waiting anywhere.”

His luggage had been passed by the inspector. The crowd was thinning. The only people left were a few flustered passengers who were having trouble with the customs. His hope was ebbing; after his high anticipations he was suffering from reaction. Loitering disconsolately by his trunks, he clutched obstinately at the skirts of his vanishing optimism. His brain was fertile in producing excuses for why she had not met him. The news that the ship had docked might not have reached her, or it might have reached her too late. Perhaps at this very moment she was hurrying to him, sharing his suspense.

He wouldn’t leave yet. It would seem as though he blamed her, didn’t trust her, if she should arrive to find him gone.

Two hours had elapsed since he had landed. It wasn’t likely that she would come now. As he drove to the Brevoort, he tried to explain the situation to himself so that it might appear in its bravest aspect. She must know that he had landed to-day; if his cable, telling her of his coming, had failed to be delivered, he would have been notified. And if, when she had received it, she hadn’t wanted him, she would have replied. Therefore, she both wanted him and knew that he had landed. He came to the conclusion that he had hoped for too much in expecting her to meet him. Until he had got excited, he hadn’t really expected that. It was only at the last minute that he had persuaded himself she would be there. To have had to welcome him in public, knowing the purpose of his voyage and knowing so little about him, would have been embarrassing. She was waiting for him to go to her home where their meeting would be private.

At the Brevoort, the telephone-clerk found the phone-number of her address. He was trembling as he slipped into the booth. He was going to hear her voice. What would she say to him—to his daring at having accepted her challenge; and what would he say to her? He took up the receiver.

“I’ve come, Desire. Who’s this? Can’t you guess? It’s the person you used to call Teddy.”

He listened. There was a pause. “Hulloa! Are you there?”

Muffled and metallic the answer came back: “Yes.—But Miss Desire’s not at home. This is Madame Jodrell’s maid speaking.—No. Madame Jodrell’s gone out. She won’t be home to lunch. She didn’t say when I was to expect her.—Has she gone to the dock to meet some one? No. I’m sure she hasn’t. Will you leave a message?”

He repeated his name and gave her his address.

“I’ll tell whichever of them gets home first,” the distant voice assured him; then he heard the click of the receiver hung up.

He was bewildered. Things grew more and more discouraging. Desire must have mistaken the day of his arrival. If not, however pressing her engagement, she would have left him some word of welcome.

He had a lonely lunch at a table looking out on Fifth Avenue. From where he sat he caught a glimpse of Washington Square—a glimpse which suggested both Paris and London. He was inclined to feel angry; the next moment he was amused at his petulance. A lover was always in haste. He wouldn’t let himself feel angry. It would be time enough for that if he found that she’d led him on a wild-goose chase. Then anger would help him to forget. In the meanwhile he must take Madame Josephine’s advice and be content to love. “Women long to be trusted.” Perhaps all this apparent indifference was a part of Desire’s test; she was trying to discover how far he would trust her. When he thought of her cloudy gray eyes, he felt certain that any seeming unkindness wasn’t intended. “I’m far nicer than you suspect,” she had told him.

Then, from anger he became all tenderness. What did a little postponement matter? It would make their meeting all the finer. He wouldn’t ask her a single accusing question..That was the kind of thing Hal would have done, spoiling available happiness by a remembered grievance. Love, if it was worth anything, was a rivalry between two people to be generous. The man had to set the example; the girl didn’t dare.

As he passed out of the hotel, his eye caught a florist’s tucked away behind the doorway. He ordered some lilies of the valley to be sent to her. This time he inclosed his card. He smiled. If he took to sending her presents at the rate he had in London, she’d have no excuse for not knowing that he had landed.

“She feedeth among the lilies.” Where had he heard that? As he sauntered up Fifth Avenue in the ripe September sunlight, the scene drew from out the shadows of his memory: a little boy standing naked in a stable-studio, while a piratical-looking wild-haired father worked upon a canvas and chanted, “‘She feedeth among the lilies. She looketh forth in the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners. If a man give all his substance for love he cannot...’” He remembered how his father had wagged his head at him: “No, he cannot, Teddy. Yet many waters cannot quench love.”

“She feedeth among the lilies!” He wished he had sent her a different kind of flower.

The magic of the streets took his interest—the elation of being in a new country. He was conscious of a height, a daring, a vigor which were novel in his experience. Mountains of concrete and steel met his gaze. What kind of a people was this who raised soaring palaces, bigger than cathedrals, and used them as offices? To get to the top must be a day’s journey. The people who inhabited the highest stories must live among the clouds and come down for week-ends. He watched the eagerness of the keen alert faces which hurried past him on the pavements—the quick tripping step of the girls, and the thin racing look of everybody. The types of the faces were cosmopolitan, but their expression was one: they all had the high-wrought look of athletes who were rushing to a future which would not wait for them. He felt himself caught up, daunted, stung into vitality, and whirled forward by a wave of monstrous endeavor.

That afternoon he visited the editor who was the excuse for his journey. All the while, as he sat talking to him, he kept thinking: “The flowers will have arrived by now. She’ll know that I have come.”

He talked prices which should have astounded him; but the only thought he had was how much this influx of money and reputation would enable him to do for her. When he had arranged the nature of his contributions, he was on edge for his interview to end. The moment it was over, he dashed to the elevator, found the nearest telephone and rang up his hotel.

“This is Mr. Gurney. Has a message been left for me?”

“None.”

Strange. There must be some reason. She would tell him when they met. Should he call her up? Or go to her house and camp till she came back? He shook his head. His pride warned him that that wouldn’t be policy. The next sign must come from her. And then he wondered, was it right to have either pride or policy when you were in love? It was pride and policy that had made him waste his chances on that night drive from Glastonbury.

He went to see his publisher, who was astonished by his youth and had had no idea that he was in America. He found himself treated as a personality—a man to be reckoned with. It was exhilarating, flattering; but all that it meant to him was something to tell Desire to make her glad. That was all that any success meant now.

It was five o’clock when he returned to his hotel. He went to the desk.

“Any message?”

The clerk glanced down the row of pigeon-holes and drew out a slip of paper.

“A lady called you up.”

With nervous fingers he took it from him and read:

“Come to dinner seven forty-five. Vashti Jodrell.”

From Desire nothing!