“Rex, can you ask?” Her warm little head lay against his throat, her heart beat against his, her breath fell upon his cheek, and her curls clustered among his own. “Yvonne—Yvonne,” he murmured, “I love you—once and forever.” “Once and forever,” she repeated, in a half whisper. “Forever,” he said. An hour later they were seated tete-à-tete at Gethryn’s little table. She had not permitted him to poach the eggs, and perhaps they were better on that account. “Bachelor habits must cease,” she cried, with a little laugh, and Gethryn smiled in doubtful acquiescence. “Do you like grilled sardines on toast?” she asked. “I seem to,” he smiled, finishing his fourth; “they are delicious—yours,” he added. “Oh, that tea!” she cried, “and not one bit of sugar. What a hopelessly careless man!” But Gethryn jumped up, crying, “Wait a moment!” and returned triumphantly with a huge mass of rock-candy—the remains of one of Clifford’s abortive attempts at “rye-and-rock.” They each broke off enough for their cups, and Gethryn, tasting his, declared the tea “delicious.” Yvonne sat, chipping an egg and casting sidelong glances at Gethryn, which were always met and returned with interest. “Yvonne, I want to tell you a secret.” “What, Rex?” “I love you.” “Oh!” “And you?” “No—not at all!” cried the girl, shaking her pretty head. Presently she gave him a swift glance from beneath her drooping lashes. “Rex?” “What, Yvonne?” “I want to tell you a secret.” “What, Yvonne?” “If you eat so many sardines—” “Oh!” cried Gethryn, half angrily, but laughing, “you must pay for that!” “What?” she said, innocently, but jumped up and kept the table between him and herself. “You know!” he cried, chasing her into a corner. “We are two babies,” she said, very red, following him back to the table. The paté was eaten in comparative quiet. “Now,” she said, with great dignity, setting down her glass, “behave and get me some hot water.” Gethryn meekly brought it. “If you touch me while I am washing these dishes!” “But let me help?” “No, go and sit down instantly.” He fled in affected terror and ensconced himself upon the sofa. Presently he inquired, in a plaintive voice: “Have you nearly finished?” “No,” said the girl, carefully drying and arranging the quaint Egyptian tea-set, “and I won’t for ages.” “But you’re not going to wash all those things? The concierge does that.” “No, only the wine-glasses and the tea-set. The idea of trusting such fragile cups to a concierge! What a boy!” But she was soon ready to dry her slender hands, and caught up a towel with a demure glance at Gethryn. “Which do you think most of—your dogs, or me?” “Pups.” “That parrot, or me?” “Poll.” “The raven, or me? The cat, or me?” “Bird and puss.” She stole over to his side and knelt down. “Rex, if you ever tire of me—if you ever are unkind—if you ever leave me—I think I shall die.” He drew her to him. “Yvonne,” he whispered, “we can’t always be together.”