To the god from the machine (for as such, in spite of many ungodlike illusions, I still continued to regard myself) it seemed to me that all was going beautifully toward the consummation of my heart's fondest desire. And it was not until the following evening, when Jerry at last managed to find a chance to have a long talk with me, that I learned the truth. It was a hot night in June. We had climbed to the roof of the new building for a breath of air, forsaking Jerry's small bedroom in the temporary quarters of the club where we had both been perspiring profusely. We sat upon the parapet smoking and talking of Jerry's plans and, since Una and the plans seemed to be a part of each other, of Una. "I see her constantly, Roger," he said joyously. "We have regular meetings three times a week, sometimes at the Mission--and sometimes at the club, and when there isn't enough daytime--up in Washington Square. She has a wonderful mind for detail--carries everything in her head--figures, everything." "And you're happy?" I asked. "Need you ask?" he laughed. "I've never known what life was before. It's great just to live and see things, good, useful things grow under your very eyes, so personal when you've planned 'em yourself." "And Una?" "Oh, she's happy too. But then she's always happy, always was. It's her nature. I sometimes think she works a little too hard for her strength, but she never complains." He paused and looked down the side street to where the East River gleamed palely in the dusk night. "You know, Roger, I sometimes wish that she _would_ complain. She just goes along, quietly planning--doing, without any fuss, accomplishing things where I fume and fret and get angry. She puts me to shame. She's a wonder--an angel, Roger." He smiled. "And yet she's human enough, always poking fun at a fellow, you know. I'm no match for her; I never was or will be." He grew quiet and neither of us spoke for a long while. We felt the life of the City stirring under us, but overhead were the stars, the same stars that hung above the peace of Horsham Manor, where in the old days we had dreamed our dreams. "You care for her?" I ventured softly at last. He did not speak at once. His gaze was afar. "Care for her?" he murmured after awhile, "God help me! I love her with all the best of me, Roger. I always have loved her. It's so strange to me now that I never knew it before--so strange and pitiful--now when it is too late." "Too late, boy?" I said with a smile. "Life for you, for you both, is just beginning." "No, Roger; I would give everything in the world to be able to go to her and ask her to marry me. But I can't--" his voice sank and broke, "after _that_. I'm a beast--unclean." He rose and took a pace away from me. "We mustn't speak of that--again. It makes me think of what I owe to--the other." "You owe her nothing. She has refused you. She doesn't care. Her whole life avows it. She has forgotten. Why shouldn't you?"