Kendall Ware woke up to a world which was not all straight lines and angles, which was not an uncompromising and rule-of-thumb world as it had seemed yesterday. To-day it was a world in which curves and even curlicues were permissible. Yesterday he was in sympathy with the Blue Laws and could have understood a God who frowned if a man were to kiss his wife of a Sabbath. To-day he could not comprehend the attitude of yesterday, hardly remembered it, in fact. He was young, and rapid changes of attitude were possible to him as the heart was heavy or light, as events were kind or harsh. It would not have been true to say that he was light of heart this morning, but his heart was in a condition to become light, needing only to find Andree and to receive Andree’s forgiveness to make it so.

As was characteristic, the pendulum of his convictions had swung to the opposite and most remote point of its arc; where yesterday any deviation from orthodox rule and rigid form had been a sin, to-day he was inclined to err on the side of liberality. It seemed, rather, as if nothing could be wholly evil, and this simply because it had been shown to him that Andree was not evil and that his relations with her need not of necessity be degrading. Yesterday he had been possessed by his inheritances from his mother; to-day his father was in control. Just as the one had been exaggerated, so now the other was in extreme.... And therefore he could conceive happiness and stand upon the brink of happiness.... To be able to perceive virtue is to be happy. It is a perception which is its own reward....

Last night he had been afraid he would never find Andree; now he was certain she would be easy to find. It was the matter of forgiveness that caused his uneasiness. He had been brutal, harsh, presenting an unlovely spectacle. It was such a spectacle of a man’s self as might prove fatal to love, for who can love the unlovely? And yet when he thought of Andree’s gentleness, her sweetness, of all the many indications he had seen of a gracious and tender character, he even dared to hope that he had not offended past condoning.

He arose impatiently, eager for the day to commence so that it might end and enable him to take up his search.

“Bert!” he called. “Up yet?”

“Getting up,” Bert answered, drowsily.

“Is Arlette here yet?”

“Haven’t heard her.”

“What in thunder’s getting into her! Doesn’t she know a fellow’s got to have breakfast in the morning?”

“Huh—she isn’t due for quarter of an hour. What’s the sudden rush?”

Before he was fully clothed Arlette rapped on his closed door to demand his shoes, which he passed out to her, together with his puttees, and walked into Bert’s room, wearing bedroom slippers.

“Some uniform,” said Bert, eying the spectacle. “Ought to recommend it to the General Staff. Swagger, I call it. Now if you only wore red socks.... H’m! How you feeling this morning?”

“Hungry.”

“Surprising, seeing you didn’t eat anything all day yesterday.” Bert studied his friend’s face covertly and found reason for satisfaction. With more tact than his character warranted one to expect, he let the subject of yesterday rest there and did not again refer to it. He finished shaving in his usual leisurely manner, put on his blouse and belt, and was just in time to receive his shoes and leggings from Arlette.

“Mind having dinner late to-night?” Ken asked.

“No. Why?”

“I—I hope Andree will be here.”

“H’m!... Want me to look up Madeleine?”

“Rather you didn’t. We’ll—Well, you can see yourself that we’ll have a lot of talking to do.... I’ve got to square myself.”

“I’ll clear out altogether and let you have the place to yourselves.”

“No need. I might not—it’s possible I won’t find her.”

Bert thought that was highly probable, but he did not say so. “Just as you say,” he said. “What time?”

“Eight o’clock. If I’m not here by that time, go ahead and eat.”

“What about you?”

“I’m going to camp in that cafÉ on the corner there until I find her.” Ken’s jaws became prominent. “I’ll stay there till I’m a permanent improvement.”

Arlette came in, casting apprehensive glances at Kendall; she was unsmiling and had nothing to say beyond the greetings of the morning. Ken realized that he was in her disfavor.

“Arlette,” he said.

She paused in the door and, glancing up to his face quickly, let her eyes shift to the carpet. “Yes, monsieur,” she said.

“You’re angry with me.”

“Non, monsieur.”

“Yes you are. You should be. I’ve been a fool.”

She looked up again, this time scrutinizing his face more carefully. “Monsieur did not conduct himself with wisdom,” she said.

“What should I have done, Arlette?” He was really curious to know what she would answer.

“It is never wise to hurt where one is loved,” she said. “Also one should be sure that no mistake is made—”

“But it was a mistake, Arlette.... If you loved as you told me you did once, and the man you loved behaved as I did, what would you do? Would you forgive him?”

“Me?” said Arlette. “Ah, who can say! It is many years, and love is only a thing to remember sometimes.... But I, monsieur, was not as Mademoiselle Andree is. Oh, no. There was weight to me, and a temper of the highest. Oh yes, and I spoke many words with great readiness. It is so.... What would you? Mademoiselle Andree is not at any point the same. She is gentle and sweet, monsieur, and it may be she is forgiving. As for me, I think if any man had so behaved to me he would have taken himself away with words in his ear that, I’ll warrant, would have leaped through to his clumsy brain, oui, and with other reminders that I was not to be dealt with after such a manner.... But, as I have said, I was of a weight, and my temper was high.”

“But you would have forgiven?”

Arlette waggled her head and wiped her chin on the back of her hand. “At least,” she said, “I should have made him earn my forgiveness.... Oh, Monsieur Ken, it was not well for you to treat her so; it was of a cruelty.... But I believe she will forgive; her eyes were of the kind that forgive with too great readiness.”

She turned and was about to disappear when she leaned far back to allow her face to present itself at a droll angle in the doorway. “Jealousy,” she said, “is a disease that makes heavy hearts. In very truth, I have seen it.... It is much better if one is not jealous. One cannot at the same time be jealous and wise.... And always there are regrets.”

“Will you have dinner at eight to-night? A nice dinner. I hope to find Mademoiselle Andree and bring her home again.”

“Find her? But monsieur has but to go to her address. She has not gone away?”

“I do not know her address.”

Arlette sighed and waggled her head ponderously.

“Then monsieur must apply to the police. All addresses are known to the police.”

“But I don’t know her name—only Andree.”

“Name of God!... Can such things be? Oh, these Americans! Who has seen their like? Not know her name, not know her address. It is of an impossibility!... Does he speak truly, monsieur?” she demanded of Bert, who nodded in the affirmative.

“Mon Dieu!... Mon Dieu!...” she exclaimed, and waddled off to the kitchen as if she dared no longer trust her body in the presence of such a madman.

“There,” said Bert, “now you know what a respectable body thinks of you. Apparently she thinks all Americans are in the habit of cutting up such capers. Most likely she believes addresses don’t count with us because we live under trees like savages, and never go back to the same tree twice....”

“Anybody who doesn’t do things exactly as you yourself do them is a savage. We think the French are barbarians, the French think we are barbarians, and the English consider both of us savages.... Come on, it’s time we were starting.”

When they reached the street Ken began to walk swiftly, as if by hurrying now he could make the day pass more quickly. At the office he plunged into his work, taking only the briefest period for lunch. At five o’clock he was on his way toward the Place St.-Michel to take up his sentry-go there. Somehow he was confident he would see Andree. What she did with her days he did not know, but he imagined she went into the city. Certainly she went somewhere, and to return she must traverse the square from the Metro station over at the left. He, therefore, took his station by the rim of the fountain and watched each passer-by. It was tiresome to watch and wait; the people did not interest him as they had always interested him before. Quaint couples passed unnoticed; children stopped to stare at him as he sat on the flat rim of the basin; venders of Rintintin and Ninette dangled their worsted dolls before him in vain. Once or twice he thought he saw her coming, and stood up eagerly, only to sink down again, disappointed.... And then he saw her coming; it was she unmistakably; there was no mistaking that tam, that flimsy little dress, that slender figure and her quaint, abstracted walk.

Long before she saw him he was groping for words, searching for the one thing to say, because he knew that there must be some single thought that should be put into words.... There must be some eloquent sentence which would explain all, gain forgiveness for all. But he could not find it. His French was gone; his English would not take form.

She crossed the square with little steps that seemed almost stiff, her body very erect, as always, and her eyes seeming to see nothing that went on about her. He fancied a shade of sadness was added to the gravity of her face.... She did not see him until he stood before her and spoke, and it was no eloquent sentence that he uttered, no wonderful thought that he put into words.

“Mignonne!...” he said.

She did not start, but merely stopped and raised her eyes to his face slowly. There was no surprise, no emotion of any sort to be seen, only that quaint gravity with which he was so familiar. She stopped and waited, as she always stopped and waited, ready, it seemed, to take her cue from what was about to happen. She might never have seen him before, but then, he thought, she always met him so—as if she had never seen him before.... She did not speak; only waited.

He was inarticulate, abashed, nonplussed. Suddenly it seemed to him that there was nothing to say, nothing that could be said. He had been guilty of conduct which removed him forever from her life, which was unforgivable. There was an impulse to turn and to hurry away from her, but he repressed it.... He must do something, say something.

“I’m ashamed,” he said, clumsily. “I’ve been miserable.... I had to find you and tell you.... I—What can I say? It was wicked—wicked....”

He could go no farther, could only search her face with his eyes for some reflection of her thoughts, for some sign that he might hope for pardon. She did not reply; there was no change in her expression, only that unfathomable gravity and that air of suspended judgment.

“Last night I tried to find you.... I sat and waited, but you did not come. I couldn’t go to sleep until I had begged you to forgive me.... I don’t deserve to be forgiven. What I did—what I said, was unforgivable.... Oh, Andree!...”

There was a little pause, then she said, “You have been sad?”

“Yes.”

“And I also,” she said, not reproachfully.

“I—Never before have I known what it was to suffer—and I have suffered. It was right that I should. I deserved punishment.” Even here the Puritan in him obtruded itself. “And you were so good, so sweet, so wonderful.... I know all about it now—and I was suspicious and brutal.... I was jealous, too. But I didn’t know I was jealous.... When I thought you were not good, it seemed to me that nothing in the world could be good. Do you understand?... But there’s no excuse for me. I should have known, and I should have trusted you.... I didn’t even give you a chance to explain....”

“Oh, you speak ver’ fast. I cannot onderstan’ all.... But you have not been happy—no.... It is to be seen.... At first I do not onderstan’, and I am ver’ sad and hurt—oh, ver’ sad. When I make to cross the pont I look down at the water—yes.... And then I say it is some mistake.... I say something have happen I do not know of and it makes you to be not like Monsieur Ken, but ver’ hurt and miserable and—how you say?—upset? Yes. I say, also, that I love Monsieur Ken and always that I am fidÈle.... So what could it be?... If, then, it is nothing, only some mistake, then I am much sorry.... Not sorry for me, monsieur, who have done no wrong, but for you, who are mos’ unhappy.... It is so. My heart it makes to weep for you because you suffer....”

“Andree!...”

She nodded her head gravely. “I do not onderstan’ les AmÉricains.... Non!... Non! They are of a difference. But I onderstan’ love which mus’ be the same in America as in France, so I say Monsieur Ken he is ver’ jealous and ver’ mistaken, and I mus’ be patient and not sad more than is nÉcessaire.... So I wait till thees mistake is not a mistake any more. And many times I mus’ say to myself that you are jealous, and therefore you love me. Because if there is not love, then there is not to be jealous, n’est-ce pas? So I am almos’ happy, but not quite ... because you love me.”

“And you don’t hate me? You can forgive me?”

“Oh, mon bien cher ami, there is nothing to forgive! It is so.... It is only that I cried sometimes for you, because you are mos’ miserable.... I say to theenk how sad you are, and then I cry.... I would not have you to be sad.”

“It isn’t possible,” Ken said, more than half to himself. “There’s nobody like this in the world.”

“Possible?... Pourquoi?”

“Mademoiselle Pourquoi—dear little Mademoiselle Pourquoi!” he said, softly.

“You are not angry with me any more—not jealous?”

“No.... No.”

“It is well.” She smiled for the first time and touched his arm with her little hand. “Then I am joyous.”

“You ought to be joyous always.... You are wonderful. When I think what you were giving up for me—and that I could suspect you—I hate myself.”

“But you are not sad now? There is not any mistake any more, and we are together. You are not sad?”

“Sad, mignonne!... Only when I think of what I said to you—things you can never forget—”

“Never forget?” She laughed a little. “Behol’, already I have forgotten. It is as if nothing ever happen’. I do not remember. Now”—she made that old familiar gesture of pointing repeatedly to the sidewalk with her finger to indicate the identical present second—“now I remember nothing. I do not know what you talk about.... You are ver’ droll, Monsieur Ken, to be speak so much about something I do not know ... about a something that have never happen’.”

Kendall felt something that was almost reverence for her; it was more than wonder and little less than awe. Never until that moment had he conceived of the possibility that such greatness of heart, such forgetfulness of self, such rightness could exist in the world.... He felt himself incapable of appreciating, of appraising the gold of her heart. It was very sweet, very radiant, that moment. There must be a goodness in the world more marvelous, purer, worthier than he had been able to imagine, and Andree possessed it.... And, possessing that goodness, she could not in any particular be evil. She would see rightly, and evil that was truly evil would be abhorrent in her eyes. His last doubt, his last fear, his last self-accusation departed from him; in his elation he was unable to perceive that a thing virtuous in Andree and for Andree might be quite other for himself....

“You gave up everything for me—your chance to enter the AcadÉmie, to go on the stage ... to be famous, perhaps.”

“Oh, that!...” She smiled up at him. “Nothing in the worl’ is so good to have as love. It is so. It is a ver’ great theeng. One leetle hour, one day of love—that is more great and more necessary to have than the mos’ fame that can be.”

“You do love me, Andree? Say it.”

“I love you,” she said, gently.

“I can never let you out of my sight again. You must be with me always—where I can see you and touch you.”

She smiled up at him, but there was a shade of sadness, perhaps of apprehension, in her deep-shadowed black eyes. “It is not possible,” she said.

“Arlette has dinner waiting for us.”

“To-night? Now.... Oh, it is not possible....” She made a pretty gesture of dismay.

“It is necessary. To prove that you have forgiven me. I couldn’t let you go now ... now that I’ve found you again. Come.”

She looked down at the walk a moment with detached gravity, then put her fingers on his arm. “Ver’ well,” she said. “You mus’ take me off like prisonnier de guerre, n’est-ce pas?... You have capture me, so what am I to do? I am ver’ helpless.... You mus’ say many sweet theengs to me so that I am not sad.”

They crossed the street to the Metro station and descended to the crowded train in which they were compelled to stand until they reached the ChÂtelet station, where they changed to the line that runs under the rue de Rivoli and the Champs ÉlysÉes. It was impossible to talk except in occasional monosyllables, but every now and then Kendall would look down into Andree’s face, always to find her looking up at him gravely, but happily. Then he would press her arm gently, and she would respond by nestling his fingers between her arm and her body. He was happy, boyishly happy. It was a new sort of happiness for him—a great, surging happiness which made the world lovely, which made even standing in a swaying subway car, jostled and elbowed by a tired crowd, a delectable thing.

He yearned toward Andree as he had never yearned toward her before. He wanted to hold her in his arms, not passionately, but gently. He was filled with a desire to show a great gentleness and consideration for her, to prove to her that he was kind. He wanted to protect her, to shield her, to deal with her as he would have dealt with a tired, trusting child, for she seemed very childlike to him, with all the purity and heart honesty of a child.... He magnified the thing she had done, and the beauty of her forgiveness, repeating over and over in his thoughts that she was good, wonderfully, miraculously good.

“Mignonne!...” he whispered in her ear, and she smiled up at him and pressed his hand.

At last they alighted and mounted to the street, and there he attempted to keep step with her tiny, severe strides until both of them laughed gaily at his efforts. She was all child now, laughing, roguish, teasing. She rattled French at him, well knowing he could not understand, and laughed at him for not understanding, and he pretended to believe she was telling him that he was ugly and cross-eyed and that she was ashamed to walk with him. Then they were at the apartment, and Ken greeted the concierge with a cordiality that left the old lady a little amazed and wondering if her American officer had not been dealing too liberally with the wines of the country.

“Oh, I shall not walk up these so many stairs,” Andree said, with her pretty mock despair. “It is not possible. You have not made an ascenseur. It was a promise.... Oui. And until you fetch one I shall remain here, on this spot.” She indicated the spot severely.

“I’ll be the ascenseur,” he volunteered, and made as if to lift her in his arms, but she slipped away and danced up the stairs before him, making believe, as she approached each floor, to be on the point of dropping from exhaustion, and counting each floor with dismay.

“So much have we climb’ and it only is the premier Étage.... Oo lÀ lÀ.... For hours we mount, and arrive but at the secon’—what do you say?—secon’ floor. It is ver’ fonny. Secon’ floor. Mais, mon bien cher ami, it sound’ like nothing at all, on’y jus’ sound.... Secon’ floor!... Such a language is thees Engleesh!”

They arrived at the fourth floor honestly panting, and she sank into a chair while Kendall searched under the mat for the key.

“I will go no more,” she said, firmly. “I am blessÉe. I am one poilu with the bad wound. It is not possible to proceed. Behol’, I am one poilu.” She puffed out her cheeks and frowned. “SacrÉ nom d’une pipe!... It is so the poilu swears....”

He thrust open the door and, picking her slight form up as he might have lifted little Arlette, he carried her inside and set her down before the hall tree.... His hands rested on her shoulders and they both became grave, looking into each other’s eyes.... And then he drew her close to him and pressed his lips to hers....

Arlette padded into the hall, attracted by the sound, observed what she observed, folded her pudgy hands on her stomach, and stared with amazement. “Mon Dieu!... Mon Dieu!...” she exclaimed, and padded away again in confusion.

Then they went into the salon, where Bert was reading the paper.

“I’ve found her,” Ken said, gaily.

“So I observe.” Bert’s voice was dry.

“Your voice must not be so w’en you speak to Monsieur Ken,” Andree said, severely. “Non.... I will not have it so. Bicause he is ver’ good, and nobody mus’ be—w’at you say?—cross with him—so.”

“Well,” Bert said, “I’ll be gentle with the child, mademoiselle, though it’s contrary to my duty.” He turned to Ken. “You seem to have put it over,” he said.

“Bert, she’s wonderful—she’s—”

“I’ve heard just two hundred and seven men say that at one time and another. Seems to be a stock phrase in the language of young gentlemen in your state of mind.... Anyhow, I’m glad the rumpus is settled. I can get some sleep now.”

“Does he scold you?” Andree asked.

“It doesn’t matter what he does,” Ken said, laughingly. “Nothing matters.... There’s Arlette’s head through the door. Let’s eat.”

Arlette served silently, but as she moved about the table she kept her eyes furtively upon Andree, and her lips moved constantly without uttering a sound. This continued until it was time to remove the meat, and then Arlette could contain herself no longer. She reached the door on her way to the kitchen with the platter, when, with startling suddenness, she turned, replaced the platter on the edge of the table, folded her hands across her stomach, rolled her eyes to heaven, and launched upon a harangue in such rapid French that it seemed one continuous word of mingled syllables.

Andree listened gravely, nodding her head the merest trifle every moment or so. Then Arlette paused expectantly and Andree replied with all the gravity of a Cabinet Minister facing a crisis. At the end of a sentence she got out of her chair and walked to Ken and put her arm about his neck and her cheek to his, continuing the reply thence. Arlette rolled her eyes and waggled her head and heaved great sighs.... Presently her set face relaxed and she smiled and wiped her chin on the back of her hand.

“Mon Dieu!...” she said. “Mon Dieu!...” and with a tremulous smile which, somehow, was not at all absurd on her heavy face—was almost tender—she retreated with suddenness to her kitchen.

“Well,” said Ken, “what now, mignonne? What’s it all about?”

Andree shook her head gaily. “No!... No!... It is not for you. I shall not speak it.”

“Was it so terrible as that?... I’m afraid I have made an enemy of Arlette.”

“But no. Well, dear friend, it is that she have much worry for you. Yes. She have much worry. She theenk you—oh, it is ver’ fonny!—she theenk you are leetle child that is lost and also is mad! She theenk something happen to you if you have no one to take care of you. She tell me I mus’ not be angry with you, but ver’ nice and kind always, bicause it is not your fault you are a baby and mad.... Oh yes. She say she love you like she is your marraine, but she is powerless to make you to be protected.... And she theenk I mus’ take you by the hand same theeng as you are blind.... So I have promise’, and now she will not worry, but gives you to me to care for. She have been mos’ unhappy. She say that only God can onderstan’ a mad American who is in love!...”

“Arlette,” said Bert, “is a woman of sound judgment.”

“Where is Mademoiselle Madeleine?” Andree asked, with one of those sudden changes of subject which were characteristic of her.

“I haven’t the least idea.”

“Why is she not here? I want her to be here. I would speak of many things to her.”

“Blame Ken there. I suggested having Madeleine, but he said he wanted you all by yourself with nobody else around.”

She turned to look at Ken as if to satisfy herself if this were truth or jesting, and then she smiled the merest trifle. “It is well,” she said, softly.

“I’m on my way,” said Bert, arising. “Got a bridge game on at the Union.... Bon soir, mademoiselle.... And you, Ken, keep your feet on the ground.”

“‘Keep your feet on the groun’,’” repeated Andree, when Bert was gone. “Oh, it mean nothing whatever. Thees English language, it is trÈs-drÔle. What is thees keep your feet on the groun’?”

“It means that Bert agrees with Arlette that I need somebody to look after me,” he said, a bit ruefully.

“It is well. Here am I—here—here.” She laughed that fairy laugh, and poked her finger toward the floor many times. “I am here, so he mus’ not be afraid. I shall look after you. Oh yes, I shall be mos’ firm and ver’ stern. You shall see.” And she made a tremendous face to show him what severity she was capable of.

They went into the salon, with its absurd bronze statues, its tasteless gilt furniture, and its absurd little throne between the windows. Andree must observe herself closely before the huge glass above the fireplace and do little unnecessary things to her hair and touch her nose with a powder-puff. Ken watched her delightedly, and then carried her to her throne, where she sat dangling her tiny feet while he closed the heavy iron shutters to make it lawful for him to turn on the lights.

Andree moved over to the sofa, looking up at him with that gravely curious expression which he saw so often on her face; she seemed to be wondering, always wondering, about something. Was it possible he was as strange, as unusual, as interesting to her as she was to him? He would have given much to know just what she was thinking, but, somehow, even then it was borne in upon him that he should never know—that she would always remain a sweet, bewildering, exotic mystery to him.

“Sit by me—ver’ close,” she said; and he sat by her and took her in his arms, while she snuggled against him with the contented sigh of a child.

“Do you love me?” he whispered.

She nodded emphatically, and then with an upward glance said, as she always said, “And you?”

“More than I can say.... Toujours—always. I shall always love you.”

“It is well.... We shall make the pretense it is so—that you love me always. But the little moments, they are so sweet—well, dear friend, that they could not be always. Is it not so? If it could be always then I theenk God He would be jealous.... No.... But we mus’ pretend. We mus’ pretend there is no war, and that you shall never go to AmÉrique again ... and leave me solitaire.”

He was silent. This was a thought that had been growing in his mind from day to day, a thought he had refused to face or to consider. What was to be the end of it all? Suppose he should be ordered home in a week or a month. What then?... He did not know, and he was unwilling to ask himself. Rather he would be contented with the little minutes and let each day care for each day’s problems. When the day of his return arrived, then the thing must be faced and the question answered.... But to-night he loved her; wanted to think of nothing but love and the happiness that such a sweetheart could bestow.... She seemed to wait for some answer, for some assurance, but he had none to make, and presently she said, but not with the same happy note in her voice:

“It may be that love is so great a thing that it cannot live forever—as it is for us. Behol’—one has a mos’ beautiful jewel, and it is ver’ nice and there is much joy to have it. But consider—if everything one had is jewels, jewels, jewels, then the firs’ jewel it is not so nice, so wonderful. N’est-ce pas? It may be it is the same theeng with love. Do you onderstan’? It is great and ver’ beautiful bicause it is only for the leetle moments w’en one is yo’ng—and w’en the heart it is ready for love.... I theenk this is so. Then, what can matter, bien cher ami? Thees love of now is the mos’ bes’ theeng of all life ... bicause, maybe, it cannot live much long.... Yes, yes, I have seen many ol’ man and ol’ woman who say they remember thees love—but not one who say he has thees love still. You see I theenk of it much....”

“Yes, honey.”

“And so I have not fear that you go.... I have only fear that something happen bifore our little moment of happiness is done—never to come back again. Do you onderstan’? One day, for all, thees love it begins to fade and be less lovely. It becomes less strong and not weeth such wonderfulness.... I have seen. At las’ it is but a friendship and a memory. But it is a great and a fine friendship bicause of the memory. Is it not so?... And that is marriage, my friend ... that friendship. It is but a good regard of each for the other which comes like the bread after the beautiful growing wheat.... Am I ver’ foolish?”

“No.... No....”

“Bicause of thees that I believe, then I am not sad, but ver’ happy, and I do not fear. I have what is worth all other theengs—thees leetle moment of happiness which is love.... I would pay for it weeth ever’thing. It is worth to pay for weeth much sorrow and weeth much loneliness.... If you mus’ go—well, dear friend, let it be bifore thees leetle moment fades.... But we mus’ pretend it shall never fade and that we are together always as thees.... It is more better so.”

She drew his lips down to hers, and he knew that blind, throbbing, winged happiness which has no language, no symbols, no words of description, which can never be remembered except as a mysterious, haunting ecstasy which once was living and real, which leaves behind but the dim outline of its spirit and an elusive something as of a sweet scent that once tingled the nostrils for an instant, to be wafted away forever....