“I shall not be married till I see it’s the obvious thing to do.” “Not even to me?” “That’s different. I’ve already told you—” “That if I give the word— But don’t you see I can’t give it?” “Exactly. You’re waiting for the sign as much as I am.” “What sign?” “We shall recognize it when the time comes.” “Where will it come from?” “Right up out of life; I don’t know where, nor how.” “Who’ll give it to us?” She had only time, as Cantyre returned to his seat, to send me a long, slantwise look, with the underscored words, “You know!” Another time was in the regrouping of guests, after Annette’s luncheon. Finding myself beside her at a window, I asked the plain question, “Are you engaged to Cantyre?” “I’m just where I was when I told you about it on board ship. He hasn’t asked me to be more definite.” “Is he just where he was?” “I think he is, in that—in that he expects me to marry him.” “And you leave him under that impression?” “I don’t know what else to do—till I get the sign.” “You’re still looking for that?” “Yes. Aren’t you?” “Not that I’m aware of.” “Oh, but you are, whether you’re aware of it or not.” “And suppose he urges you before the sign comes?” “I shall still wait.” “And suppose I urged you?” “I’d take that as the sign.” And after the guests went I stayed behind and told the whole story to Annette. So long as there were no clandestine meetings under her roof, she was as detached and sympathetic and non-committal as a chorus in a Greek play. “Why don’t you give her the sign, if it’s not a rude question?” she asked, while a marvelous succession of ripples circled over her duskiness. “Because I’m afraid to. Think what it would mean to Cantyre, who’s been so white with me all these years.” “As well as to every one concerned, including herself and you. I’m glad you’ve enough common sense to feel that. See here, Frank,” she went on, kindly, “you’ve got to pull yourself out of this state of mind. It’s doing you no good. When you ought to be at work for your country, which needs you desperately, you’re sulking over a love-affair. Buck up! Be a sport! Be a man! There are lots of nice girls in New York. I’ll find you some one.” But at that I ran away. _CHAPTER XXVII_ Within a few days I saw the correctness of Annette’s summing up. A medieval legend tells of an angel being sent to Satan with the message that God meant to take from the devil all the temptations with which he had seduced mankind. To this Satan resigned himself because he couldn’t help it, begging of the angel that he should be left with just one—and that the least important. “Which?” asked the angel. “Depression,” said Satan. The angel considered the request, found that depression cut but slight figure as a sin, and went back to heaven, leaving it behind him. “Good!” laughed Satan, as the celestial vision faded out. “In this one gift I’ve secured the whole bag of tricks.” And that is what I was to find.