"It ought to do him good if such a girl as you gives him all of herself that she decently can. I don't know whether I'm right or wrong!" he added almost angrily. "Confound it! there seems no end to conjugal infelicity around us these days. I don't know where the line is--how close to the danger mark an unhappy woman may drift and do no harm to anybody. All I know is that I'm sorry--terribly sorry for you. You're a corker." "Thanks," she said with a faint smile. "Do you think Delancy may safely agree with you without danger to his peace of mind?" "Why not? After all, you're entitled to lawful happiness. So is he.... Only----" "Only--what?" "I've never seen it succeed." "Seen what succeed?" "What is popularly known as the platonic." "Oh, this isn't _that_," she said naively. "He's rather in love already, and I'm quite sure I could be if I--I let myself." Duane groaned. "Don't come to me asking what to do, then," he said impatiently, "because I know what you ought to do and I don't know what I'd do under the circumstances. You know as well as I do where the danger mark is. Don't you?" "I--suspect." "Well, then----" "Oh, we haven't reached it yet," she said innocently. Her honesty appalled him, and he got up and began to pace the gravel walk. "Do you intend to cross it?" he asked, halting abruptly. "No, I don't.... I don't want to.... Do you think there is any fear of it?" "My Lord!" he said in despair, "you talk like a child. I'm trying to realise that you women--some of you who appear so primed with doubtful, worldly wisdom--are practically as innocent as the day you married." "I don't know very much about some things, Duane." "I notice that," he said grimly. She said very gravely: "This is the first time I have ever come very near caring for a man.... I mean since I married." And she rose and glanced toward the forest. They stood together for a moment, listening to the distant music, then, without speaking, turned and walked toward the distant flare of light which threw great trees into tangled and grotesque silhouette. "Tales of the Geneii," she murmured, fastening her loup; "Fate is the Sultan. Pray God nobody cuts my head off." "You are much too amusing," he said as, side by side, they moved silently on through the pale starlight, like errant phantoms of a vanished age, and no further word was said between them, nor did they look at each other again until, ahead, the road turned silvery under the rays of the Lodge acetylenes, and beyond, the first cluster of brilliant lanterns gleamed among the trees. "And here we separate," she said. "Good-bye," holding out her hand. "It is my first rendezvous. Wish me a little happiness, please." "Happiness and--good sense," he said, smiling. He retained her hand for a second, let it go and, stepping back, saluted her gaily as she passed before him into the blaze of light. CHAPTER XI FETE GALANTE