Thurley nodded. “Love made her insane,” she defended. After a moment Dan said, “Sing for me, Thurley, like you used to—when things were different.” Reaching out her hand, Thurley held his in simple palship as she sang in a hushed voice the old tunes they both had loved. As she finished, he said with an effort, “Maybe we better not see each other this summer.” “Why not?” “Because I’m only a small town man with a mighty fine wife and you are a genius coming here to amuse yourself, to make yourself forget some one who doesn’t love you—and that’s not a wise combination! I’m liable to lose my head ... I kept it pretty well after you left.” “Do you blame me?” She seemed contrite herself. “Were you fair?” “I suppose not. It was just the choice of two futures—you chose the one intended for you. Only now that you’ve chosen, don’t keep on bruising yourself and every one else by trying to—trying to—” “Don’t you want to see me?” She was determined to have some one want to see her own self, whether or not she sang a single note. “Don’t I want to? I’ll always want to.” He came closer to her. “Were you never sorry you went away? It would help a lot to know.” Closing her eyes and remembering as little of the three years as was possible, nothing of her vow or Lorraine, Thurley gave vent to her starved womanhood. “A little,” she whispered. “Then I will see you and be your pal,” was his answer. “Let me be just that. No one can say there’s any harm in it—not even ’Raine. I’ll have her call on you, Thurley; that will make it right.” He was very close now, his cheek almost touched her own. She drew away. “In opera those tenors make love as if you were their own,” he said savagely. “I hated to see it!” “But you were on your wedding journey,” she reminded. They both laughed, jangling, noncontagious sounds. “But, Dan, we’d never have gotten along,” she reminded him. “I’m a creature of whims and moods—spoiled, of course, it was inevitable.” She began telling some of her experiences. “But you won’t forbid my being just pal,” he urged, as she consulted the anklet watch and found it tea-time. “Not if you’re content to have it that way,” she promised. “Run along and I’ll follow, it would never do to have us drive off in unison.” As she stood up her rumpled lace draperies made her seem more like a little girl. “Thurley, Thurley,” he said in sort of impassioned reverie, “you have come back to me—” “Only for the summer,” she answered in gay decision. “Oh, Dan, remember I haven’t really found myself, nor shall I, perhaps. So think of me as lightly as you can. My present state of mind would permit of but one motto for over my fireplace, ‘Forty miles from wood, Forty miles from water, Forty miles from hell— God bless our home!’” Lorraine knew Dan had visited with Thurley, so did the village. She wisely kept her counsel and consented to Dan’s stammering request that she call on Thurley—“after all, it might look queer if she did not.”