He picked his way through the ever-increasing crowd of agitated people, avoiding rampant automobiles and inquisitive citizens with equal skill, and approached Alix's gate. His blood was rioting. The memory of that triumphant moment when her warm body lay in his arms,--when her lips were his,--when his eager hand pressed the firm, round breast,--ah, the memory of it all set fire to his blood. She had come to him, she had clung to him, she had kissed him! He had won! She was his! He must see her again tonight, hold her once more in his arms, drink of the rapture that came through her lips, caress the throbbing heart she had surrendered to him. Anticipation sent the blood rushing to his head. He grew strangely dizzy. He narrowly escaped being struck by a car. "The darned fools!" he muttered, as he leaped aside into the shallow ditch. A figure separated itself from a group near the gate and approached him. There were no lights near and the lane was dark. He could not see the face of the woman who halted directly in front of him, barring the path. "It is I, Courtney,--Rosabel," came in low, tremulous tones. He stood stockstill, peering intently. "Rosabel!" he repeated vacantly. "I--I saw you. The auto lamp shone on your face." Her teeth were chattering. Her voice was little more than a whisper. "You--you poor child!" he cried. "What are you doing here? How do you happen to be--" "I came over to spend the night with Annie Jordan. I--I do that quite often, Courtney. Aren't--aren't you ever coming to see me again?" "I was planning to come over tomorrow, Rosie,--tomorrow sure. I've been meaning to run over to your house--" "I--I thought you had forgotten all about us," she broke in, pathetically. "You wouldn't do that, would you? Didn't you get my letters? I wrote four or five times and you never answered. You--you haven't forgotten, have you?" "Bless your heart, no! I should say not. I've been so busy. Working like a dog on my book. The one we talked about, Rosie. The story of my experiences over in France, you know." "Oh, Courtney, are you really, truly writing it?" she cried eagerly. "Sure," he replied. "It's a tough job, believe me. I've been so busy I haven't even had time to write letters. Mother complains that I never write to her. Dear old mater,--I ought to be kicked for neglecting her. Stacks of unanswered letters. Really, it's appalling. But I've just got to finish this work. The publisher wants it before Christmas." "You promised to read it to me as you wrote it, Courtney," she murmured wistfully. "Don't you remember?" "Just as soon as I've got it in little better shape, Rosie. You see, it's an awful mess now. I'm trying so hard to concentrate. It would be different if I were an experienced writer. But I'm a terrible duffer, you know. The least little thing throws me off. I--"