stirred with the sincerest pity for her, a throb of rapture was in his veins that she could be talking so to him. The minutes were ineffable, in which she seemed to discard the social mask and surrender more and more of her identity to his view. Spiritually she appeared to be lying in his arms; and when she checked herself, and rallied with a laugh which was over-taken by a sigh, he felt that he could have listened to her for ever. "How solemn we've become!" she exclaimed; "and we came out to be 'festive' to-night." "I shall always remember the 'you' of to-night," he said. They were silent again. She passed her hand across her eyes impatiently, as if to wave away the pictures of the past. By transitions their tones regained their former cheerfulness. She mentioned the hour, and drew her wrap about her. It was time to return. "It has been delicious," she murmured, looking up at the stars. "Only you let me bore you." "By talking of yourself?" "So stupid of me!" "You know," said Kent--"you know!" "I _wanted_ to tell you; you won't think so badly of me, perhaps." "I?" "I'm sure you have. Now, sometimes?" "If I confessed my thoughts, you'd never say so any more." "Really?" Her eyes flashed mockery. "You mustn't tell me, then--I might be vain." The cab bowled over the white roads rapidly. The flutter of her scarf on his shoulder stole through his blood, and the clip-clop sound of the horse's hoofs seemed to him to waken echoes in his inside. "Do you know, it was very indiscreet of me to come down here with you?" she laughed. "Supposing somebody had met us!" "And then?" "What would be thought?" "_What_ could be thought?" he asked unsteadily. "Scandal, perhaps. I'm very angry with you; you've made me do wrong. Why did you make me do wrong when I had such faith in you?" "You've given me the happiest evening of my life," said Kent; "is that the wrong?" "Do you think happiness must always be right? It's a convenient creed. Happiness at any price--and let the woman pay it, eh? That's a man's philosophy. You're quite right, though; but, then, you're at the happiest time of life. No, nobody is ever that! The happiest time of life's the past. Believe me, or believe me not, the past is always beautiful; to-morrow I shall regret to-day." "So shall I," said Kent. "But very much indeed I appreciate it now.... What are you cynical for? You only put it on. It's not 'you' really." "'Wise judges are we of each other.' How do you know?" "You said that to me once before--in Paris." "Said what? Oh, the quotation! When?" "At your place, after the Variétés." "What a memory! Yes, you're certainly resolved to try to make me vain. But I'm adamant. Did you know that? I'm made of stone. Do you treasure up what every woman says to you? The answer is a wounded gaze; it's dark to see expressions, but I'll take it for granted." "I remember what _you_ said to me half an hour ago, and I know your bitterness is a sham. You were meant to be----"