“What a funny husky voice,” she murmured in her own deep indolent tones. “Do you like me to call you ‘darling’ or ‘dearest’ best?” he asked. “Both.” “Ah, but which do you like best?” To Michael the two words were like melodies which he had lately learned to play. Indeed, they seemed to him his own melodies never played before, and he was eager for Lily to pronounce judgment. “Why do you ask questions?” she wondered. “Say ‘dearest’ to me,” Michael begged. “No, no,” she blushed against his heart. “But say which you like best,” he urged. “Darling or dearest?” “Well, darling,” she pouted. “You’ve said it,” cried Michael rapturously. “Now you can say it of your own accord. Oh, Lily, say it when you kiss me.” “But supposing I never kiss you ever again?” asked Lily, pulling away from his arms. “And besides we must go back.” “Well, we needn’t hurry.” “Not if you come at once,” she agreed. One more kiss, one more gliding dreaming walk, one more pause to bid the river farewell from the towering bridge, one more wrestle with the waterproof-rug, one more slow lingering and then suddenly swift escaping finger, one more wave of the muff, one last aerial salutation, and she was gone till Wednesday. Michael was left alone between the tall thin houses of Kensington, but beneath his feet he seemed to feel the world swing round through space; and all the tall thin houses, all the fluted lamp-posts, all the clustering chimney-pots reeled about him in the ecstasy of his aroused existence. Chapter XVII: Lily W HEN Michael came into the dining-room after he had left Lily, his mother said: “Dearest boy, what have you been doing? Your eyes are shining like stars.” Here was the opportunity to tell her about Lily, but Michael could not avail himself of it. These last two days seemed as yet too incomplete for revelation. Somehow he felt that he was creating a work of art, and that to tell his mother of conception or progress would be to spoil the perfection of his impulse. There was only one person on earth to whom he could confide this cataclysmic experience, and that was Alan. He and Alan had dreamed enough together in the past to make him unashamed to announce at last his foothold on reality. But supposing Alan were to laugh, as he had laughed over the absurdity of Kathleen? Such a reception of his news would ruin their friendship; and yet if their friendship could not endure the tale of true love, was it not already ruined? He must tell Alan, at whatever cost. And where should he tell him? Such a secret must not be lightly entrusted. Time and place must come harmoniously, befalling with that rare felicity which salutes the inevitable hours of a human life. “Mother,” said Michael, “would you mind if I stayed the night over at Richmond?” “To-night?” Mrs. Fane echoed in astonishment. “Well, perhaps not to-night,” conceded Michael unwillingly. “But to-morrow night?”