The thought flashed across my mind that once I had been in this selfsame park with Alice several years before; we had sat under a tree not so very far from here, near a pagoda silvered by the moon, and had listened to music played in the distance. I remembered how I had whispered sweet nothings and kissed her to my heart’s content. “Well, you may if you’re good,” she replied. I began jesting with her now. I deliberately descended from the ordinary reaches of my intelligence, anxious to match her own interests with some which would seem allied. I wanted her to like me, although I felt all the while that we were by no means suited temperamentally. She was too commonplace and unimaginative, although so attractive physically. We sat in silence for a time, and I slipped my hand down and laid hold of her fingers. She did not stir, pretending not to notice, but I felt that she was thrilling also. “You asked about Miss W——,” I said. “What made you do that?” “Oh, I thought you liked her. Why shouldn’t I?” “It never occurred to you that I might like some one else?” “Certainly not. Why should I?” I pressed her fingers softly. She turned on me all at once a face so white and tense that it showed fully the feeling that now gripped her. It was almost as if she were breaking under an intense nervous strain which she was attempting to conceal. “I thought you might,” I replied daringly. “There is some one, you know.” I was surprising myself. “Is there?” Her voice sounded weak. She did not attempt to look at me now, and I was wondering how far I would go. “You couldn’t guess, of course?” “No. Why should I?” “Look at me,” I said quietly. “All right,” she said with a little indifferent shrug. “I’ll look at you. There now; what of it?” Again that intense, nervous, strained look. Her lips were parted in a shy frightened smile, showing her pretty teeth. Her eyes were touched with points of light where the moonlight, falling over my shoulder, shone upon them. It gave her whole face an eerie, almost spectral paleness, something mystical and insubstantial, which spoke of the brevity and non-endurance of all these things. She was far more wonderful here than ever she could have been in clear daylight. “You have beautiful eyes,” I remarked. “Oh,” she shrugged disdainfully, “is that all?” “No. You have beautiful teeth and hair—such hair!” “You mustn’t grow sentimental,” she commented, not removing her hand. I slipped my arm about her waist and she moved nervously. “And you still can’t guess who?” I said finally. “No,” she replied, keeping her face from me. “Then I’ll tell you,” and putting my free hand to her cheek I turned her face to me.