She sat quietly and waited for him. He came over, seeming glad to see her, and slouched into a chair. “I wondered if I’d find you here,” he said. “I wondered if you’d come!” she said. She was astonished to find in herself no emotion except that of being glad that he had come—simply that. “Last night,” he said, “I wanted to come to see you. And I was afraid to, I guess. Because of things I didn’t want to tell you about—that I thought you wouldn’t understand.” The table, that place dedicated to the telling of impossible truths, still had for them its old magic. “Last night,” she said, smiling ruefully, “I set the alarm clock to go off at midnight.... If you didn’t come by then, I was going to forget you.” “And I didn’t come,” he said. “No.... I waited till the clock went off. I said that if you came before that I would forgive you everything—anything.” “How could I come?” he asked. “Before one can be forgiven, one must be ashamed. And I wasn’t ashamed. I’m not now.” “Why should you be?” she asked. “But you don’t know,” he said. “Or do you? Have you seen Phyllis?” “Phyllis? No!” “Neither have I—for three days.” “But I thought—” “No you didn’t.” He leaned forward. “Tell me—did you ever _believe_—not your mind, but with your emotions!—that I was in love with Phyllis? Were you ever really jealous of her? Did you ever take her seriously, as your rival?” “No—not the real Phyllis—no. The real Phyllis I liked, and was sorry for and ... perhaps a little afraid of—but not as a rival. I _was_ jealous of the Phyllis who—who existed only in your mind.” “My illusion of her, yes. But why?” “Felix, you robbed me to give to that illusion. You loved in her what you refused to see in me to love. I might have been all that she was to you—and you wouldn’t let me! When you spoke of her, I kept thinking, ‘He might say those things of me!’—and you might, much more truly.” “Then why did you push me into her arms—into the arms of the real Phyllis ... the one you were afraid of! Because you knew she’d hurt me? Was that it?” They were talking in the eager low tones of their accustomed discussion, cut off by the influences of this spot from any disturbing sense of outer things—alone in an enchanted solitude, a magic circle into which none but the waiter could intrude. “Hurt you?” A look of tenderness shone fleetingly in Rose-Ann’s eyes, half-contradicted by a triumphant smile. “Did she hurt you? I’m sorry, Felix.” “Are you?” “No—I’m glad! I wanted you to be hurt! I wanted to punish you—for dreaming of her—punish you by making you find out....” “It would serve you right if the illusion had turned out to be true after all, wouldn’t it?” “I thought it had, Felix. What happened?” “I don’t know exactly. But look at this!” He took the card from his pocket and put it before her. At that moment the waiter came up, bowing them welcome. “You haf’ not been here for many days now,” he said. “I begin to think you desert us! Haf’ you your order ready?”