An English summer’s night lay before me in all its silver splendor--huge shadows of trees, scented coolness of the air, and damp smoothness of turf beneath my tread. The exultation of life’s bigness and cleanness came upon me. I knew now that it was right to be proud of the body and to love the body. Oh, why had it been left to a glimpse in the dusk of a young girl’s face to teach me that? At a rush I had become possessed of all the codes of mediaeval chivalry. Every woman, however old or unpleasing, was for Fiesole’s sake most perfect--a person to be worshiped; for in serving her I should be serving Fiesole. What a name to have! How all her perfectness was summed up in the beauty of those full vowel sounds, _Fi-es-sol-le_. I trespassed again in the garden. In the quiet of the rose-scented night I entered the summer-house. Far away the nightingales sang on. There were words to their chanting now and their song was no, longer melancholy. And these were the words as I heard them: “_Fiesole--Fiesole--Fiesole. Love in the world. Love in the world. Glad--glad--glad._” CHAPTER VI--WHAT IS LOVE? My secret was too big and beautiful to keep to myself. There was no one I could tell it to save the Bantam. But the Bantam had grown shy of me; he knew that within myself I had been laughing at him. He turned away when I tried to catch his eye, and bent with unaccustomed diligence above his lessons. Not till after lunch did I get a chance to approach him. All the other boys had changed into flannels and had hurried off to the cricket-nets. I wandered into the empty playground and there found him seated alone in a corner. His knees were drawn up so that his chin rested on them; in his eyes was a far-away sorrowful expression. I halted before him. “Bantam.” He did not look up, but I knew by the twitching of his hands that he had heard. “Bantam, I’ve got something to tell you.” Slowly he turned his head. He was acting the part of Hamlet and I was vastly impressed. “Is it about Ruthita?” “Partly. But it’s happened to me too, Bantam.” “Wot?” “A girl.” A genuine look of live-boy astonishment overspread his countenance. “A girl!” he ejaculated. “But there ar’n’t any about--unless you mean Pigtails.” Pigtails was Beatrice Sneard, and I felt that an insult was being leveled at me. “If you say that again, I’ll punch your head.” “Oh, so it is Pigtails.” He rose to his feet lazily and began to take off his jacket. “Come on and punch it.” But a fight wasn’t at all what I wanted. So I walked straight up to him with my hands held down. “Silly ass, how could it be Pigtails? Do I look that sort? It’s another girl. I came to you ’cause you’re in love, and you’ll understand. I’ve been a beast to you--won’t you be friends?” I held out my hand and he took it with surly defiance. I was too eager for sympathy, however, to be discouraged. “She’s called Fiesole,” I said. “Isn’t that beautiful?” “Ruthita’s better.”