“No, Felix,” Rose-Ann was saying, “there’s no use being afraid of good fortune. When the gods give us beauty, we must take it—not run away from it.” “So!...” he said. “I’m afraid the Greeks thought differently.” “They were so much less Greek, then,” said Rose-Ann. 3 “It’s late,” said Phyllis. “I must go home. Will you take me, Felix?” He put on his hat and went out with her silently. They walked along the empty streets without a word until they reached the door of the house in which she lived. Then she lifted her face up to him, and said, “You know that I love you, Felix.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ XLVIII. Dream-Tryst 1 THE foundations of Felix’s existence seemed to crack and fall apart, the whole edifice of thought and emotion in which he lived to topple and tumble in ruins. “No,” he said slowly, “——I didn’t know.” They turned, and walked down the street toward the corner, side by side. At the corner they paused, and looked at each other helplessly. “Yes, I do too know,” Felix said. “I must have always known.” They stood looking at each other for a moment, and then turned back, walking along the street in silence, past the door of the house, to the corner, where they stopped again. “I couldn’t stand it,” Phyllis said, “not to tell you. It hurt so—to have to keep it a secret, as if it were something to be ashamed of. And I thought—if there is anything in this modernism—this talk—if it really means anything, if it isn’t all just a damned fake—I could tell you. I wanted to. I had to, Felix.” Yes ... of course. That was the meaning of it all.... “You aren’t angry at me, Felix, for telling you?” No——he wasn’t angry. It seemed to him magnificent——the simplicity, the bravery, the candour of that confession. She was to him in that moment a person more quietly sure of herself, more nobly honest, than anything in all this tangled insincerity of modern life——a creature out of some poem of the world’s youth. Beside him, as she walked, her very person seemed magnified—her soft brown hair, her dark quiet eyes, her serene mouth, seemed the features of an epic heroine, who faced life strong-limbed, clear-eyed and unafraid. She was the embodiment of that calm, serene, strong girl-goddess who had been with him a recurring love-dream since childhood. The beauty, the simplicity, of that confession of love stirred him to the depths of his emotions.... And he realized that he had something to confess in return—something that this honesty of hers required of him. But they had turned again and walked back to the other corner before he could say it. It came with difficulty, with an effort that took all his courage, all his strength. And yet it must be said.... “I love you, too, Phyllis.” She looked up at him, as if puzzled, startled, incredulous.