Vashti! It was a far cry from this September night to the spare-bedroom at Orchid Lodge, with the red winking eye of the winter’s fire, the tapestry of Absalom swinging by his hair and the little boy sitting up in bed, spellbound by the enchantment of a woman’s voice. A far cry to the marriage-box, to the wistful consultations with Harriet and to that same ecstasy of love, unfulfillable then, that he was dreaming now! He wondered how much of his passion for Desire was the outcome of that ghostly passion for her mother. It was like a faery-story which, with pauses and diversions, had been telling itself throughout his life. Vashti had been the enchantress who, by lifting her voice, had created his hopes and his despairs. Her voice had lured Desire from him in the darkened silence of the farmhouse. And now, with starry eyes, he was going to her that she might give him back Desire. The coolness and rustling of trees! To his left a river black and silent To his right a rampart of houses, honey-combed with fire. Flitting on speedy errands, cars darted through the shadows with staring eyes. He caught glimpses of women, and of men who sat beside them. Men and women always and everywhere together! Where were they going? What did they talk about? With them lovers’ ways were an old story, but with him---- The conductor called from the top of the steps and pointed to an apartment-house. While his name was being telephoned up, he took in his surroundings. All this was familiar to her. He compared it with Eden Row, and was filled with hesitations. Everywhere his eye detected luxury. She might be wealthy. He had never thought of that; he had only thought of what he could give her. Their ways of life must be utterly divergent. What had he to offer? And he had come to America to marry her! He was told he was expected. The elevator shot up and halted; the boy directed him to a door in the passage. As he stood waiting, he heard the sound of a piano played softly. The moment he was admitted, the playing stopped. In a luxurious room illumined by a solitary shaded lamp, a woman was seated with her hands upon the keyboard. The window was open and a breeze rustled the curtains. Distant across the river in the abyss of night lights twinkled like stars in an inverted firmament. The air was filled with a summer fragrance: it drifted from a bowl of lilies of the valley which had been placed on the piano beneath the lamp. The woman turned her head slightly; he could just begin to see her profile. Her voice reached him softly: “Don’t speak. I was remembering. It pains, and yet it’s good to remember--sometimes, Teddy.” Her hands commenced to wander, picking out chords, starting little airs, leaving them abruptly and starting them afresh.