“King,” she said, “you must promise me you’ll never do that again; you must, King, or I shall have to leave you and not return.” “I swear it! Never until you lay your head on my breast, of your own free will!” But presently she turned and faced him bravely, her eyes again on his. A new note was in her voice. She seemed older. “King, I can’t bear to see you look unhappy; and I am not a hypocrite. I forgive you, because--I am glad you kissed me, just once--and in that way. Now, I do not doubt--” “You cannot doubt--” “I do not doubt _myself_! King, my splendid boy--oh, this is shameful!” She choked, covered her eyes with one hand, stretched the other blindly toward him, but before he could take it, was gone. He stood as she left him, looking down the vista through which she fled, but seeing nothing. Presently he pressed the back of one hand to his eyes and then examined it in wonder. “Oh Terence! Terence! what would you give to see that! You’d blackmail me fifty years.” CHAPTER V The next note reached King four days after his meeting with Billee in the Museum. The four days had seemed four years. It would be untrue to say that the mystery of it all did not continue to wear on him in the hours when he should have been sleeping, but the Southerner is born and dies an optimist, and is usually loyal to his ideals. King’s loyalty refused to entertain a doubt. Who could doubt Billee’s eyes? The note came as his reward, or so he cheered himself. It appointed a meeting for the afternoon in one of New York’s suburban churches. “The choir will be rehearsing for Easter, but the church doors will be open and only a few, if any, people in the pews. Go at four and find a seat well back, over on the left. I shall join you as soon as I am free to come. Dear King, I have been so miserable, so happy! Please, please, don’t make love to me any more. But don’t stop loving me. Please understand. I am not in a position for your love--now. Trust me--whatever happens don’t doubt that I love you. There now! I have said it. Does it make you happy? It makes me miserable, but I am only happy now when I’m miserable about you. “Billee.” The world stood still for King Dubignon, or at least time seemed to, when the hurried, unrevised, illogical little note revealed its message. Trust her? Trust Billee? Well, rather! He stowed it in his deepest pocket along with some other priceless compositions of hers, and went off to church much ahead of the appointed time. The _chiaroscuro_ over on the left received him, and ages after, she glided into the pew and slipped her hand in his, while the choir sang, afar off, “Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom.” Speech, while the divine voices carried that wonderful song-prayer, would have been sacrilege. And, though he did not analyze, it was expressing his feelings far better than he knew how.