She'd said, "Supposing the moon did fall into your lap, Taffy? Suppose that young Cloud-Dweller of yours did (a) take you flying, and (b) propose to you?" and she'd recited solemnly:

"Yes; 'of' it! After having it. Who'd mind dying then?"

"But if it hadn't been worth it, Taffy? Suppose you were air-sick?" Leslie had suggested. "Worse, suppose you were Paul-sick?"

"What?"

"Yes, supposing that Super-Boy of yours himself was the disappointment? Suppose none of his 'little ways' happened to please you? Men don't realise it, but, in love, a man is much easier to please than a woman!"

"No, Leslie. No," had come from the girl who knew nothing of love-making—less than nothing, since she thought she knew.

Leslie had persisted. "The first pet-name a man calls you—awfully important, that!—may hash up Love's young dream for ever. Some men, I believe, begin with 'Dear old—something or other.' That's the end. Or something that you know you're obviously not. Such as 'Little Woman,' to me. Or they don't notice something that's specially there for them to notice. That's unforgivable. Or they do notice something that's quite beside the mark. Or they repeat themselves. Not good enough, a man who can't think of one new way of saying he cares, each day. (Even a calendar can do that.) Saying the wrong thing, though, isn't as bad as being silent. That's fatal. Gives a girl such a lot of time to imagine all the things that another man might have been saying at the time. That's why men with no vocabularies ought never to get engaged or married. 'I'm a man of few words,' they say. They ought to be told, 'Very well. Outside! It simply means you won't trouble to amuse me.' Exit the Illusion.

(Especially with a look too short.) Yes," Leslie had concluded impressively, "suppose the worst tragedy happened? Suppose the Dampier boy did get engaged to you, and then you found out that he didn't in the least know how to make love? To make love to you, I mean."

"There wouldn't have to be any love 'made,'" little Gwenna had murmured, flushing. "Where he was, the love would be."

"My dear, you are what Hugo Swayne calls 'a PassÉ-iste' in love. Why, why wasn't I brought up in the heart of the mountains (and far away from any other kind of heart) until I was twenty-two, and then hurled into a love-affair with the first decent-looking young man?" Leslie had cried, with exaggerated envy. "The happier you! But, Taff, do remember that 'Love is a Lad with Wings'—like yours. Even if the engagement were all your fancy painted, that Grand Firework Display sort of feeling couldn't last. Don't shoot! It's true. People couldn't go on living their lives and earning their livings and making their careers and having their babies if it did last. It must alter. It must die down into the usual dear old sun rising every morning. So, when your 'Oiseau de feu' married you, and you found he was just—a husband, like everybody else's——"

"Not 'like' anybody!"—indignantly.

"How d'you know what he's like?" Leslie had demanded. "What d'you know of his temper? Men with that heather-honey kind of smile and those deep dimples very often have a beastly temper. Probably jealous——"

"I would love him to be that."

"You wouldn't love to be poor, though," Leslie had gone off on another tack. "Poor, and uncomfortable."

"I shall never be comfortable again without him," Gwenna had said obstinately. "Might as well be uncomfortable with him!"

"In a nasty little brick villa near Hendon, so as to be close to the flying, perhaps? With a horrid dark bathroom? And the smell of cooking haddocks and of Lux all over it!" Leslie had enlarged. "And you having to use up all your own little tiny income to help pay the butcher, and the Gas Light and Coke Company, and the rates, and loathsome details of that sort that a woman never feels a ha'porth the better for! Instead of being able to get yourself fresh gloves and silk stockings and a few trifles of that sort that make absolutely all the difference to a woman's life!"

"Not all the difference, indeed," Gwenna had said softly. But Leslie had continued to draw these fancy pictures of married life as lived with Mr. Paul Dampier.

"Taffy, for one thing, you've never seen him anything but nicely-groomed and attractive to look at. You try to imagine him in what Kipling calls 'the ungirt hour.' They talk of a woman's slatternliness killing love. Have they seen a man when he 'hasn't bothered' to groom himself? That sight——"

She had shaken her black head ineffably over the mental image of it, and had averred, "That sight ought to be added to the Valid and Legitimate Causes for Divorce! A wife ought to be able to consider herself as free as air after the first time that she sees her husband going about the house without a collar. Sordid, unbecoming grey flannel about his neck. Three half buttons, smashed in the wringer, hanging by their last threads to his shirt. And his old slippers bursting out at the side of the toe. And his 'comfortable' jacket on, with matches and fur in all the pockets and a dab of marmalade—also furred—on the front. And himself unshaved, with a zig-zag parting to his hair. I believe some men do go about like this before their wives, and then write wistful letters to the Daily Mirror about, 'Why is Marriage the Tomb of Romance?'"

Gwenna had sniffed. "Oh! Some men! Those!"

"Valid cause for Divorce Number Ninety-three: The state of the bedroom floor," Leslie had pursued. "I, slut as I am, do pick things up sometimes. Men, never. Ask any married woman you know. Maudie told me. Everything is hurled down, or stepped out of, or merely dropped. And left. Left, my child, for you to gather up. Everything out of the chest-of-drawers tossed upon the carpet. Handkerchiefs, dirty old pipes, shirts, ties, 'in one red burial blent.' That means he's been 'looking for' something. Mind, you've got to find it. Men are born 'find-silly.' Men never yet have found anything (except the North Pole and a few things like that, that are no earthly good in a villa), but they are for ever losing things!"

Gwenna had given a smile to the memory of a certain missing collar-stud that she had heard much of.

"Yes, I suppose to be allowed to find his collar-studs is what he'd consider 'Paradise enow' for any girl!" Leslie had mocked. "I misdoubt me that the Dampier boy would settle down after a year of marriage into a regular Sultan of the Hearthrug. Looking upon his wife as something that belongs to him, and goes about with him; like a portmanteau. Putting you in your place as 'less than the dust beneath his chariot,' that is, 'beneath his biplane wheels.'"

"Leslie! I shouldn't mind! I'd like to be! I believe it is my place," Gwenna had interrupted, lifting towards her friend a small face quivering with conviction. "He could make anything he liked or chose of me. What do I care——"

"Not for clothes flung down in rings all over the floor like when a trout's been rising? Nor for trousers left standing there like a pair of opera-glasses—or concertinas? Braces all tangled up on the gas-bracket? Overcoat and boots crushing your new hat on the bed? Seventeen holey socks for you to mend? All odd ones—for you to sort——"

Little Gwenna had cried out: "I'd want to!"

"I'm not afraid you won't get what you want," Leslie had said finally. "All I hope is that your wish won't fail when you get it!"

And of that Gwenna was never afraid.

"I should not care for him so much if he were not the only one who could make me so happy," she told herself; "and unless the woman's very happy, surely the man can't be. It must mean, then, that he'll feel, some day, that this would be the way to happiness. I'm sure there are some marriages that are different from what Leslie says. Some where you go on being sweethearts even after you're quite old friends, like. I—I could make it like that for him. I feel I could!"

Yes; she felt that some day (perhaps not soon) she must win him.

Sometimes she thought that this might be when her rival, the perfected machine, had made his name and absorbed him no longer. Sometimes, again, she told herself that he might have no success at all.

"Then, then he'd see there was something else in the world. Then he would turn to me," said the girl to herself. She added, as every girl in love must add, "No one could care as I do."

And one day she found on the leaf of the tear-off calendar in her cottage bedroom a line of verse that seemed to have been written for her. It remained the whole of Browning as far as Gwenna Williams was concerned. And it said:

"What's Death? You'll love me yet!"