“I protest, Professor, that now I am neither. At this instant, Professor, you are reminding me anew of the infinite variety of woman. It may be that there is something in the raiment, but you, quite typically, I fancy, burst upon me in fresh phases, fresh flavors. A man is a mixture to be sure, a medicine, if you like, or a mixed drink. But a woman is a _pousse café_, never twice the same nectar, and one drains the glass delighted and confused.” “I have no means of estimating your comparison,” returned the Professor, “for I never tasted a _pousse café_. I fancy it is degenerate.” “Should you ever test my symbolism, Professor, you will, I think, admit that it is more accurate than Thackeray’s comparison of a woman’s heart with a lithographer’s stone. ‘What is once written there,’ he says, ‘never can be rubbed out.’ Now if Thackeray had known anything at all about lithographers’ stones, he would have known that they are used continuously for new writings until they have become too thin for service. Thackeray would have given woman more of the benefit of the doubt if he had called her heart a palimpsest. You sometimes can make out something more than the very last writing on a palimpsest.” “I am afraid,” murmured the Professor, with a glance that puzzled me, “that you would not be able to read even that last writing.” “Alas! Professor, I never have boasted any dexterity as an expert in love’s handwriting.” “You are a man,” she said briefly. “Is there a last writing on your heart, Professor?” “Yes,” she answered, a little startled, yet speaking quietly, “there is a first and a last in one, and the ink isn’t dry, either.” [Illustration] “You don’t mean--” “Yes, I do,” she added firmly; “I have been intending to tell you about it.” “You are--not going to be--married?” “Yes.” “Professor!” I had breath but for that one gasp. “And you never said a word!” “Yes, I did--to him.” Then, seeing my look, “I wanted to tease you a little; but I am going to tell you all about it--very soon.” “I suppose,” I said, after a pause, “it is that fellow who was hurt at Santiago?” “The very same.” There was a little awkward silence. Then I arose and stood near her, and she glanced up at me with a droll, fluttering smile. “Does he understand women?” “No,” she replied softly, yet with some of her old spirit, “he isn’t so foolish as to try. He only understands--me.” “Oh,” I said. It was dusk. Somehow the moment was like the end of a chapter. A strange thing had happened, and the Professor---- Who can describe that change which follows the oldest and newest of miracles? It was not the same Professor who shimmered there in the twilight.... No, not the same. Something had gone. And there was a new light in those dauntless eyes.