“Of course, you haven’t read Virgil,” he said, with the crushing superiority of the newly fledged graduate. “It’s in the sixth book--where he takes Ænas into Hades. He describes two gates there--a gate of horn and a gate of ivory. They are the gates through which all dreams come. Those that pass through the ivory gate are false dreams--the true ones come out of the gate of horn. I will sit down beside it, and report if any of them concern you. You haven’t left me much other interest,” he concluded, bitterly, “and this life will be just Hell.” She looked at him in a short silence. “You are being very cruel, Jack. Do you think there will be much happiness for me?” She turned away her head. He laid both his hands on her shoulders, compelled her gaze to meet his. “Then let me give you happiness! Betty, I love you! I love you! I care for nothing in the world but you! Risk it! Forget everything except that you love me and I love you! You will never regret it. I will make you the happiest woman on earth as I shall be the happiest man. You cannot live without love! I love you, Betty!--and I shall always, always love you! Trust yourself to it, whatever happens!” She withdrew herself from him, shook her head hopelessly. “I can’t,” she said, wearily. “I have promised----” “Arrowsmith?” “Father.” Her tone answered all the implications of his question with a dreary finality that left no issue. Her sigh was a seal upon resignation. “Then it’s good-bye?” She nodded in a forced economy of speech. “Good-bye.” He picked up hat, stick, and gloves and moved toward the door. “You’ve nothing more to say to me?” She shook her head, her eyes brimming with tears. “No, Jack. Except that I shall remember this birthday as the most miserable day of my life. You have not made it easy for me.” “Why should I?” he asked, the uncompromising egotism of youth suddenly harshly apparent. “You refuse the best gift I can offer you--myself!” “I can’t help myself. But,” she hesitated on the pathetically forlorn appeal, “you might be kind.” Her eyes implored him. He struck himself upon the forehead with a dramatic little ejaculation which matched the gesture. “Bah!--It all seems like an evil dream to me!” She smiled at him, sadly. “I wish it came out of the gate of ivory, Jack--and not out of the gate of horn!” He flushed, his raw sensitiveness resentful of this boomerang return of his own witticism. “You can keep your sense of humour for James Arrowsmith, Betty!--Good-bye!” He snatched open the door, went out. He could not visualize her standing there listening for his shattering slam of the front door, running to the window for a last glimpse. He thought of her only as mocking at the tragedy which was so real to him.