The man was young for just that one wonderful moment of inexplicable yearning and self-loathing. Then, “I—I am afraid my wife would hardly like it,” he said, equably. “So good-by, Muriel. It has been very delightful to see you again.” * * * * * “I was mistaken, though, of course. It was the top of a vanity-box, or of a toilet water flask, or of something else, that she took out of the bag, when she was looking for her handkerchief. It was just a silly coincidence. I was mistaken, of course.... And here is Kathleen’s train. Thank goodness, it was late enough....” Thus Kennaston, as he went to receive his wife’s cool kiss. And—having carefully mentioned as a matter of no earthly importance that he had just seen Muriel Allardyce, and that she had gone off terribly in looks, and that none of them seem to hold their own like you, dear—he disbarred from mind that awkward moment’s delusion, and tried not to think of it any more. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ II Cross-Purposes in Spacious Times SO Kennaston seemed to have got only disappointment and vexation and gainless vague regret from his love-affairs in the flesh; and all fleshly passion seemed to flicker out inevitably, however splendid the brief blaze. For you loved and lost; or else you loved and won: there was quick ending either way. And afterward unaccountable women haunted you, and worried you into unreasonable contrition, in defiance of commonsense.... But for Ettarre, who embodied all Kennaston was ever able to conceive of beauty and fearlessness and strange purity, all perfections, all the attributes of divinity, in a word, such as his slender human faculties were competent to understand, he must hunger always in vain. Whatever happened, Ettarre stayed inaccessible, even in dreams: her beauty was his to look on only; and always when he came too near that radiant loveliness which was Ettarre’s—that perfect beauty which was so full of troubling reticences, and so, was touched with something sinister—the dream would end, and the universe would seem to fold about him, just as a hand closes. Such was the law, the kindly law, as Kennaston now believed, through which love might thrive even in the arid heart of a poet. Sometimes, however, this law would lead to odd results, and left the dream an enigma. For instance, he had a quaint experience upon the night of that day during which he had talked with Muriel Allardyce.... * * * * * “You are in all things a fortunate man, Master—ah—whatever your true name may be,” said the boy, pettishly flinging down the cards. “Ods life, and have we done?” says Kennaston....