Neither Phil nor I was guilty of deliberate sulking; whether from false pride or native virtue we did our best--but our best was abysmal. Even Susan sank under it to the flat levels of made conversation, and poor Jimmy--who had brought with him many social misgivings--was stricken at table with a muscular rigor; sat stiffly, handled his implements jerkily, and ended by oversetting a glass of claret and blushing till the dusky red of his face matched the spreading stain before him. At this crisis of gloom, luckily, Susan struggled clear of the drab fog and saved the remnant of the evening--at least for Jimmy, plunging with the happiest effect into the junior annals of Birch Street, till our heavier Hillhouse atmosphere stirred and lightened with _Don't-you-remember's_ and _Sure-I-do's_. And shortly after dinner, Phil, tactfully pleading an unprepared lecture, dragged Jimmy off with him before this bright flare-up of youthful reminiscence had even threatened to expire. Their going brought Susan at once to my side, with a stricken face of self-reproach. "It was so stupid of me, Ambo--this dinner. I've never been more ashamed. How could I have forced it on you to-night! But you were wonderful, dear--wonderful! So was Phil. I'll never forget it." There were tears in her eyes. "Oh, Ambo," she wailed, "do you think I shall ever learn to be a little like either of you? I feel--abject." Before I could prevent it, she had seized my hand in both hers and kissed it. "Homage," she smiled.... It broke me down--utterly.... You will spare me any description of the next ten minutes of childishness. Indeed, you must spare me the details of our later understanding; they are inviolable. It is enough to say that I emerged from it--for the experience had been overwhelming--with a new spirit, a clarified and serener mind. My love for Susan was unchanged--yet wholly changed. The paradox is exact. Life once more seemed to me good, since she was part of it; and my own life rich, since I now knew how truly it had become a portion of hers. She had made me feel, know, that I counted for her--unworthy as I am--in all she had grown to be and would grow to be. We had shaped and would always shape each other's lives. There for the moment it rested. She would leave me, but I was not to be alone. No; I was not to be alone. For even if she had died, or had quite changed and forsaken me, there would be memories--such as few men have been privileged to recall.... INTERLUDE