He lay stark awake all night, wondering how he could carry out his resolve. At dawn he came to the only sane conclusion. He could not carry it out at all, at least in no desperate or brutal fashion. When he got up and faced the daylight world, he scorned himself for a fool. The soft clinging of her lips had transmuted the worship of years into the fine gold of love. That was true, maddeningly true. His being was aflame with the new and wondrous thing. But Stellamaris? To her the kiss that she gave had been one of gratitude, affection, trust, weariness. She had lain in his arms and had felt safe and sheltered, and so had kissed him, the Great High Belovedest of her childhood. To her the kiss had meant nothing. How could it? How could passion touch the creature of sea-foam and cloud? And even allowing such an extravagant possibility, how could he, great, rough, elderly, ugly bear that he was, inspire such a feeling in a young girl's heart? He a romantic figure! He, with the pachydermatous mug that offended his eyes as he shaved! He denounced the monstrous insolence of his overnight fancy. He would keep tight grip on himself. She should never know. As far as the infinitely precious one was concerned, all would be well. So argued the human ostrich. After his morning's work at the office of the weekly review, he went to the Carlton, where the party of intimates had arranged to lunch. He arrived early, but found Herold, who was earlier, waiting in the palm court. “Look here, old man,” said he as he sat down by his side, “forget the fool nonsense I talked last night.” “Did n't you mean it?” asked Herold. “Yes,” said John, bluntly. “I did n't sleep a wink. But forget it all the same. Things have got to go on outwardly just as they are.” “As you like,” said Herold. He lit a cigarette, and after a whiff or two, added: “I must repeat what I hinted at and what you seemed to reply to. What about Stella?” “It's absurd to think of her suspecting,” said John. Herold's nervous fingers snapped the cigarette in two. “She must never suspect,” said he. “Do you think I'm a devil?” said John. “No. You 're a good fellow. Who knows it better than I? But you 're passionate and impulsive. You must be on your guard--not for the next two or three days, but for ever and ever.” “All right,” said John. “Now put the matter out of your mind.” Herold nodded, squeezed the burning end of his broken cigarette into an ash-tray, and lit another. “You 're looking fagged out, Wallie,” said John, after a while. “What have you been doing?” “Nothing in particular. This part is rather trying, and I've not had a holiday for a couple of years. I want one rather badly. I don't complain,” he added, with a smile, glad to get away from the torturing talk of Stellamaris. “During the two years I 've been working, scores of better actors than I have n't been able to get an engagement. I'm a spoilt child of fortune. My time will come, I suppose, when they no longer want me.”