“Just this, Dawn. The light of day sweetens all things. We have dragged this thing out into the sunlight, where, if it grows, it will grow sanely and healthily. It was but an ugly, distorted, unsightly thing, sending out pale unhealthy shoots in the dark, unwholesome cellars of our inner consciences. Norah’s knowing was the cleanest, sweetest thing about it.” “How wonderfully you understand her, and how right you are! Her knowing seems to make it as it should be, doesn’t it? I am braver already, for the knowledge of it. It shall make no difference between us?” “There is no difference, Dawn,” said he. “No. It is only in the story-books that they sigh, and groan and utter silly nonsense. We are not like that. Perhaps, after a bit, you will meet some one you care for greatly—not plump, or blond, or German, perhaps, but still—” “Doch you are flippant?” “I must say those things to keep the tears back. You would not have me wailing here in the street. Tell me just one thing, and there shall be no more fluttering breaths and languishing looks. Tell me, when did you begin to care?” We had reached Knapfs’ door-step. The short winter day was already drawing to its close. In the half-light Von Gerhard’s eyes glowed luminous. “Since the day I first met you at Norah’s,” he said, simply. I stared at him, aghast, my ever-present sense of humor struggling to the surface. “Not—not on that day when you came into the room where I sat in the chair by the window, with a flowered quilt humped about my shoulders! And a fever-sore twisting my mouth! And my complexion the color of cheese, and my hair plastered back from my forehead, and my eyes like boiled onions!” “Thank God for your gift of laughter,” Von Gerhard said, and took my hand in his for one brief moment before he turned and walked away. Quite prosaically I opened the big front door at Knapfs’ to find Herr Knapf standing in the hallway with his: “Nabben’, Frau Orme.” And there was the sane and soothing scent of Wienerschnitzel and spluttering things in the air. And I ran upstairs to my room and turned on all the lights and looked at the starry-eyed creature in the mirror. Then I took the biggest, newest photograph of Norah from the mantel and looked at her for a long, long minute, while she looked back at me in her brave true way. “Thank you, dear,” I said to her. “Thank you. Would you think me stagey and silly if I were to kiss you, just once, on your beautiful trusting eyes?” A telephone bell tinkled downstairs and Herr Knapf stationed himself at the foot of the stairs and roared my name. When I had picked up the receiver: “This is Ernst,” said the voice at the other end of the wire. “I have just remembered that I had asked you down-town for supper.” “I would rather thank God fasting,” I replied, very softly, and hung the receiver on its hook. CHAPTER XII. BENNIE THE CONSOLER