To Thorpe the girl seemed more beautiful than ever. She exceeded even his retrospective dreams of her, for the dream had persistently retained something of the quality of idealism which made the vision unreal, while the woman before him had become human flesh and blood, adorable, to be desired. The red of this violent unexpected encounter rushed to her face, her bosom rose and fell in a fluttering catch for breath; but her eyes were steady and inquiring. Then the butter pounced on Thorpe from behind with the intent to do great bodily harm. “Morris!” commanded Hilda sharply, “what are you doing?” The man cut short his heroism in confusion. “You may go,” concluded Hilda. Thorpe stood straight and unwinking by the straight portiere. After a moment he spoke. “I have come to tell you that you were right and I was wrong,” said he steadily. “You told me there could be nothing better than love. In the pride of my strength I told you this was not so. I was wrong.” He stood for another instant, looking directly at her, then turned sharply, and head erect walked from the room. Before he had reached the outer door the girl was at his side. “Why are you going?” she asked. “I have nothing more to say.” “NOTHING?” “Nothing at all.” She laughed happily to herself. “But I have--much. Come back.” They returned to the little morning room, Thorpe's caulked boots gouging out the little triangular furrows in the hardwood floor. Neither noticed that. Morris, the butler, emerged from his hiding and held up the hands of horror. “What are you going to do now?” she catechised, facing him in the middle of the room. A long tendril of her beautiful corn-silk hair fell across her eyes; her red lips parted in a faint wistful smile; beneath the draperies of her loose gown the pure slender lines of her figure leaned toward him. “I am going back,” he replied patiently. “I knew you would come,” said she. “I have been expecting you.” She raised one hand to brush back the tendril of hair, but it was a mechanical gesture, one that did not stir even the surface consciousness of the strange half-smiling, half-wistful, starry gaze with which she watched his face. “Oh, Harry,” she breathed, with a sudden flash of insight, “you are a man born to be much misunderstood.”