"There was--a--green and white piazza corner," vaguely his memory reminded him. "Never again!" some latent determination leaped to mock him. And there had been--some sort of an argument--with a drollish old man--concerning all homely girls in general and one very specially homely little girl in particular. And the--very specially homely little girl in particular had turned out to be the old man's--daughter!--"Never again!" his original impulse hastened to reassure him. And there had been a horseback ride--with the girl. Oh, yes--out of some strained sense of--of parental humor--there had been a forced horseback ride. And the weather hadbeen--hot--and black--and then suddenly very yellow. Yellow? Yellow? Dizzily the world began to whir through his senses--a prism of light, a fume of sulphur! Yellow? Yellow? What was yellow? What was anything? What was anything? Yes! That was just it! Where was anything? Whimperingly, like a dream-dazed dog, the soul of him began to shiver with fear. Oh, ye gods! If returning consciousness would only manifest itself first by some one indisputable proof of a still undisintegrated body, some crisp, reassuring method of outlining one's corporeal edges, some sensory roll-call, as it were of--head, hands, feet, sides! But out of oblivion, out of space abysmal, out of sensory annihilation, to come vaporing back, back, back,--headless, armless, legless, trunkless, conscious only of consciousness, uncertain yet whether the full awakening prove itself--this world or the next! As sacred of Heaven--as--of hell! As--! Then very, very slowly, with no realization of eyelids, with no realization of lifting his eyelids, Barton began to see things. And he thought he was lying on the soft outer edges of a gigantic black pansy, staring blankly through its glowing golden center into the droll, sketchy little face of the pansy. And then suddenly, with a jerk that seemed almost to crack his spine, he sensed that the blackness wasn't a pansy at all, but just a round, earthy sort of blackness in which he himself lay mysteriously prone. And he heard the wind still roaring furiously away off somewhere. And he heard the rain still drenching and sousing away off somewhere. But no wind seemed to be tugging directly at him, and no rain seemed to be splashing directly on him. And instead of the cavernous golden crater of a supernatural pansy there was just a perfectly tame yellow farm-lantern balanced adroitly on a low stone in the middle of the mysterious round blackness. And in the sallow glow of that pleasant lantern-light little Eve Edgarton sat cross-legged on the ground with a great pulpy clutter of rain-soaked magazines spread out all around her like a giant's pack of cards. And diagonally across her breast from shoulder to waistline her little gray flannel shirt hung gashed into innumerable ribbons.