When it was time for lunch, Yetta said she would rather cook than go to a restaurant, so they raided a delicatessen store.

It was during the afternoon that the first shadow fell across their dream. Yetta asked him if he had heard about Mrs. Karner's divorce.

"Yes, I know."

There was a queer ring in his voice which made her look up; something in his face disturbed her.

"What's the matter?"

He took his arms from about her and got up.

"Yetta," he said, pacing the room, "I suppose I'm a fool to ask you. But how much do you want to know? Very few men in this world of ours live up to their own ideals. I certainly haven't. I told you I was getting gray. Well—she's one of the gray spots—inside. I'd rather not tell you about it. It will only hurt you. But I'm not a good liar. You noticed something at the bare mention of her name. But if you want to know, I'll tell you."

For a moment Yetta was silent.

"I think you'd better tell me," she said. "I'm not afraid."

But she was. She had accepted the idea that Mabel had preceded her in his affection. She had not thought of other women. This was disturbing enough. But what really frightened her was that he was reluctant to tell. If there was any one tangible thing which love meant to her, it was frankness. She had told him everything without his asking. Here was something he had held back. What it was did not matter so much as the different point of view it showed. It was startling to realize how very little she knew of his life.

He pulled up a chair beside the window-seat where she lay, and told her about Beatrice; told it in a way that did not make her seem offensive to Yetta. He told the story as truthfully as might be, without giving its real explanation—his heartbreak over Mabel. He did not want to bring this in. If Yetta had asked him point-blank how long it was since he had been in love with Mabel, he would not have tried to deceive her. But the telling of it would only distress her.

"It may not sound to you like a pretty story," he ended. "I'm not proud of it. But I'm not exactly ashamed either. It's a sick sort of a world we live in. There are better days coming when the relations between men and women will be saner and sweeter—and finer. But I don't think more lightly of Beatrice because of this. She's a remarkable woman. Life has not been very kind to her. But she's fought her way to the place where she is through with pretence. That at least was fine about our friendship. We were not pretending. I haven't told it very well, perhaps I haven't made you understand. But I hope Beatrice can look back on it without being ashamed. I can."

Although Yetta listened intently, she was all the time thinking not so much of Mrs. Karner as of what she typified—the unknown life of the man she loved, the things he had not told her.

"Am I forgiven?" he asked, kneeling beside her and taking her hand.

"Oh! Forgiven! That isn't it. Who am I to forgive you or blame you? It's that I don't understand. And when I don't understand, I'm afraid."

"You mustn't be afraid of the past, darling."

"I don't know about that. When it comes to love, I can't think of any past or present or future. It's just somehow eternally always and now and for ever and ever. I'm not sure we can get away from the past. I can't explain it very well, but some things are real and some aren't. I don't think I'll ever get rid of the real things which have come to me. They'll never die."

"Well, don't worry about Beatrice,—that was only an interlude—not 'real.'"

"And Mabel?"

"A dream."

"But some dreams are real," she insisted.

"No dream in all the world, Yetta, is real like your lips."

She wanted so much to be kissed, had been so frightened for a moment, that she sought his arms without questioning this statement. But a few minutes later the thought came to her suddenly that he had kissed Beatrice just as he was kissing her. He felt her wince.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Oh, I'm dizzy. Let me go a minute."

She got up and stood by the window. She was doing him an injustice. He had never kissed Beatrice as he had just kissed her. But women seem never to understand that it is an utter impossibility for a man to caress different women in the same way. Probably our Father Adam and Mother Eve are the only couple the Earth has seen who have not had words on this subject. If Yetta had spoken out what was in her mind, Walter also would have taken up the age-old argument—in vain. But Yetta did not speak. She was fighting with herself—striving to regain her self-control. She had always believed that jealousy was contemptible. But he had kissed Mrs. Karner just as—

"Still thinking of Beatrice?" he asked quietly.

"Trying not to, Walter. Oh, Beloved, you must be patient with me. It is all so new—so dizzyingly new. I've got to trust you, Walter. I've got to believe every word you say. I know I mustn't have doubts. I've got to believe every word you say"—she repeated it as if giving herself a lesson—"and I do, Walter. I mustn't ever think when you kiss me that perhaps you'd rather kiss some one else—and I won't."

She reached out her arms to him, and blinded by tears she stumbled across the room to him.

Walter should have seized this moment to tell her the whole truth. There is one very strong argument for always telling the truth. It is so desperately hard to know which moments in our rapidly moving life are such as to make a lie fatal.

Most of us believe that ultimately truth will out. But most of us try to control its outings. On the basis of what we vaguely call "worldly wisdom," by silences, by false emphasis—sometimes by frank lies—we try to protect our friends and enemies from the vision of Truth in her disturbing nudity. And there is hardly one of us who would not give his right hand if, in some crisis of his life, he had only had sense enough to tell the whole truth.

There were very real obstacles between Walter and his desire. Between their experiences and their outlooks on life there was a great chasm. But his best chance was to face things frankly.

Beatrice was only an incident. Mabel was a more important matter. But still he could have made out a good case for himself. When he was six—nearly seven—years younger, he had fallen romantically in love with her. He had followed that love with a fidelity which promised well for his future obligations. It had become a habit, and a six years' habit is hard to break. He had come to the realization that this blind infatuation was leading him to waste. With all the manhood he could muster he had tried to break the habit. Sometimes—possibly for a long time to come—the nerve-cells of his brain would fall back into the old ruts. But when this happened, it would be only the ghost of a dead desire. Even the ghost would be laid in time.

He could have told her that the very sense of life which throbbed within them—that made such questions seem of so great importance—laid upon them in no uncertain terms the imperious duty of the future. He had no Romeo-youth to offer her. Some of his hair was gray beyond dispute. But his strong and promising manhood was worth more than any hothouse flowers of romance. He could have offered her the finest of all comradeships, the communion of ideals, the life and labor shared together.

Yetta might have refused such an offer, refused to make any compromise with the love she dreamed of. The romantic thing is to demand that the prince's armor shall be as spotless as on the day he first rode out to seek the Grail. And Yetta was romantic. But Walter, with his larger experience with life, could probably have convinced her of the patent fact that most of us have to accept much more meagre terms from life than he offered. The ideal love is woefully rare, but there are a great many happy marriages.

Walter did not recognize this as one of the moments which demand entire frankness. Why should he hurt her at this moment with another ghost story? Had he not bruised her enough for one afternoon with Beatrice?

Without realizing it, his attitude toward Yetta had changed subtly. The day before on the beach he had been impressed by her evident love for him. But the girl for whom he had been sorry had changed into the woman he ardently desired. So he kissed her tears away and taught her to smile again.

There had been enough left from the lunch purchases to serve their appetites for supper. They sat together in the window-seat and watched the twilight fall across the Square. All that was tangled in life straightened out before them, the future seemed a sort of paradisaical boulevard. In the days which were to come they were to have many hours of such sweet communion, hours when they locked the door against the world and talked or read together. And there were to be days of work. They were neither of them shirkers, and it was to be hard work. But whether it was work or play the sun was always to shine upon them, for there were to be no clouds of misunderstanding or discouragement. Side by side, how could they be discouraged? Walter was getting on towards forty, but all this seemed possible to him.

At last they turned on the lights so Yetta could read to him some verses she had learned to love. And while they were still striving to find some fitting expression for their emotions among the poets, there was a knock at the door, and Isadore came in. Walter greeted him enthusiastically.

"Yetta," he said, "shall we tell him the great news?"

But there was no need to tell him. All the time he had been shaking hands he had been looking over Walter's shoulder at Yetta. His face went pale and rigid. He stiffened up perceptibly.

"I'm glad," he said slowly, looking squarely at Walter, "if you can make her happier than I could. I love her, too."

The words seemed to Walter like a challenge. For a second or two their eyes met. He was the first to look away. He could not meet the younger man's directness.

"Walter," Isadore said, "you're my best friend. Be good to her."

He hesitated a moment, irresolute, then turned abruptly and went away. Walter stood still in the middle of the room—dazed by the intensity of Isadore's emotions, realizing suddenly how many more of the priceless gifts of Youth there were in Isadore's hands than in his own. The shame which had flooded him at Yetta's first caress came back. Yetta, in her infatuation, could not see how little—even of love—he had to offer. She was too blinded to choose freely.

"Yetta," he said, coming over and sitting on the other end of the window-seat from her, "why didn't you tell me about this?"

"Why, Walter, I did tell you. I said he asked me to marry him—two years ago."

"But I didn't realize that he loved you as much as this."

"Walter," she said, taking fright at his tone, "I never gave him any encouragement. I never—"

"It isn't that, Yetta," he interrupted her. "Oh! I don't mean that. But why didn't you marry him?"

It was her turn to be dazed and bewildered. She stood up before him, but he had covered his face with his hands.

"Why? How could I when I loved you?"

"Loved me? Yetta, you hardly knew me."

There was an earthquake in Dreamland. Just what was happening in his soul she did not know, but all things were a-tremble.

"Walter? Walter? What do you mean?"

He looked up at her with a haggard face.

"Don't you understand?" he asked seriously. "I'm more than a dozen years older than you are, close to ten years older than Isadore. Years don't always mean much, but these last ones have been very long for me.

"Youth counts for very much in this dreary world of ours. It means undimmed faith, it means courage, it means vibrancy and reserve power. Isadore has never been really defeated, Yetta, and I'm a mass of poorly healed wounds. The best of me is gone, some of it expended, more of it wasted. I come to you like a beggar, asking for all these precious things—faith, hope, incentive. My hands are empty. But Isadore could give you these things, when you need them—as you surely will some day, Yetta. If I'd been here all these years, you'd have seen the difference between us.

"A long time ago, when you were very young, I seemed wonderful to you. I went away—stop and think a moment how very little you know of me—and you made a romance about me. Romance is a very dangerous thing. It's a sort of Lorelei song, Yetta. After all, our business is to push on down the River, not to stop and play with the fairies on the rocks. It's a real world we must live in, Yetta dear, not a dream, and the facts must be faced. Youth is worth more than anything else. Your kisses made me forget to think of you—Isadore reminded me."

"What are you trying to do, Walter?" she asked. "Don't you want me to marry you?"

"I want you to be happy, Little One."

Once more he buried his face in his hands, but she knelt before him and pulled his hands away.

"Do you think anything in all the world could make me as happy as your love?"

Suddenly—with a great rush of weariness—he saw clearly the gulf between them. He knew from his own experience what thrilling things the word "love" may mean. And he could no longer lay claim to it.

"What do you mean by love?" he asked drearily.

Yetta crumpled up in a heap at his feet. If he did not know what "love" meant, the Palace of Dreams was indeed crumbling.

"Don't you know?" she whispered.

The clock ticked dolefully while she waited for his answer.

"Yes. I'm afraid I do know what it means to you, Yetta. And I haven't got that to give you. I think love means romance to you. That is what Isadore and Youth have to offer. I had it once—years ago—enough and to spare. I gave it all away—where it wasn't wanted. There isn't any glitter left.

"I came to you, Yetta, in quest of this very thing—which I have lost. I can't tell you how beautiful, how dazzling you look to my tired eyes—how much to be desired—how much above price—like the Song of Songs. And being selfish, I thought only of my want, of my hungry loneliness. I did not remember—till Isadore came in—that you too had a right—a much better right than my desire—to Youth.

"It would not be honest, Yetta, to accept your love, unless I made quite sure that you know me, know what you are doing, the choice you are making—stripped of romance, in its cold nakedness. It isn't a choice, Yetta, between me and Isadore. It's deeper than that, deeper than individuals. I must see that you make your choice with clear eyes. If you want romance—the grand passion—well—I haven't that to offer you. I—"

His voice trailed off into silence. Perhaps he was a fool. But for the first time in his life he was giving up something he wanted, something he could have for the asking. For the first time in his life he had utterly cleansed himself of selfishness. It was a momentous triumph over his nature, but it was only momentary. His desire for the girl at his feet came over him with a rush. She was resting her head against the ledge of the window-seat and—her clenched fist pressed against her lips—was staring at the black shadows under the table.

Perhaps a scrupulous definition forbade the use of the word "love" to describe his emotion, but it was none the less strong. The last twenty-four hours had been wondrously sweet to him. There was a grace to her clean, fresh youth, a charm to her caresses, her restrained but unhid passion, the timidities and spontaneous abandon of her maidenhood, which had enchanted all the roots of his being. And besides and above all this—though life holds little better than such emotions—was the hope that with her he might get into the swing of activity, the ascending curve of work and purpose.

"I'm through pleading for you, Yetta. Let me plead a little for myself. What is it that makes me talk to you like this? It's not romance. Perhaps it isn't what you would call love. But I would call it that. It's a very desperate desire to forget all about myself and—as Isadore said—'be good to you.' Get up, darling, and sit here beside me. Let us talk over again all our plans of work. After all, work is more important than romance."

She got up rather unsteadily, but she did not sit down beside him.

"I think love is necessary," she said.

"Don't let's wreck things over a word, Yetta. 'Love' means so many things. Tell me what it is I feel for you. What is it that makes me thrill so to your kisses? What is it that makes me want you, Yetta, for all time and always? What is it makes me know I can win to usefulness, if you will help me? What is it that makes me risk losing what I want most in the world, for fear I may not be true and just to you? I don't care what name you give it. But isn't it enough? Let's try to think of realities, not words."

"No. It's not the word I care about," she said. "But the reality is necessary. I love you, Walter, and I'm not afraid of the word. You know what it means to me—all that it ever meant to any woman—and more. It means thinking only and above everything else of the other—and more than that. It means giving one's self without any 'if's'—and more than that too. I can't tell you what love is—just because the reality is so much bigger than any words. But of one thing I am sure. There can't be any regrets in love. Are you sorry it isn't Mabel who loves you? I don't care about the past any more. I did for a minute this afternoon—because it surprised me. But I love you too much to care about the past. But, oh! the future, Walter? We daren't cheapen that! That's all there is left to us. And our life together—our future—couldn't be fine if you had regrets. If ever you had to hide things from me and had wishes I couldn't share. If you wished sometimes I was some one else. It's very simple, Walter. It's this way. If Mabel should come into this room and stand here beside me and say, 'I love you,' as I say it—which of us would you choose?"

"She'll never come into the room, Yetta."

"Oh, Walter! answer me! I know you won't lie. And I'll believe you for ever and ever."

And so he could not lie. He buried his face once more in his hands. He did not look up when he heard the rustle of her skirts. He did not see her as she picked up her hat and stood there, the tears in her eyes, waiting—hoping that he would say the word.

He did not look up until he heard the door close behind her. He paced the room aimlessly for several minutes, then filled his pipe and, turning out the light, went back to the window-seat. He was not exactly suffering. He felt himself miserably inert and dead.

But one thing he saw clearly—and it made him glad. Yetta's romance had come while she was still young. She was only twenty-two. Life would pick her up again. It might be Isadore, it might be some one else. But her pulse was too strong to let her decay. There are many real joys in life if you get rid of romance early enough.

Time was when he had felt as she did, when nothing but the best seemed worth having. He saw clearly that what he could have given her would not have satisfied her.

Yetta had not stopped to put on her hat. Her eyes dimmed with tears, she had stumbled down the stairs and out across the street into the Square, towards home. Then she remembered that it was early, that her room-mate would be still awake. She could not go home. There were many people about, some stretched on the grass, some grouped on the benches, some strolling about. Many noticed the hatless girl who shuffled along blindly. And presently she ran into Isadore. He also was walking about aimlessly, his head bent, his hands deep in his pockets.

"Good God, Yetta," he cried in amazement, "what's wrong?"

She raised her tear-wet face to him, stretching out her hand towards the familiar voice.

"We're not going to get married," she said.

"Hadn't you better let me take you home?"

"Sadie'll be up. I don't want to go home."

"Well, then, come over here and sit down."

Hardly knowing what she did, she followed him to an empty bench. Now, Isadore did not believe in guardian angels, but something told him not to talk.

"It's like this," Yetta said, feeling that some further explanation was necessary, "he's still in love with Mabel."

And Isadore had sense enough to say nothing at all. Yetta turned about on the bench and, resting her head on her arms, began to sob. Half the night through, Isadore sat beside her there on guard.