“I’m—I’m very, very sorry that you are going away,” I told her. “Are you? I should not imagine that anything would have the power to make you either very, very sorry or very, very glad.” “Natalie!” She looked down for a moment, and when she looked up again she was her usual friendly, frank self. “Well then, why do you talk in that disillusioned way? It isn’t a bit like you.” I was silent. Then, taking a wild leap in the dark, I tried to be equally frank, whatever the consequences. “Natalie, I know it isn’t like me. It isn’t even a real side of me. But I had to do it to-day, as I have had to do it before. There is a real and vital reason. And that is all I can tell you. Do you believe me?” She looked up, laughing. Then, as her eyes met mine, her smile faded into a look of wonder. “Do you really mean that?” she demanded. “I really mean just that,” I assured her earnestly; “and I really mean that I simply cannot tell you any more than that.” “But—but—why, that is absurd. Why can’t you be yourself?” I shook my head despairingly. “Natalie, I have told you the truth. I don’t lie much anyway; and our friendship means far too much to me for me to lie to you of all people. But I cannot tell you any more than that!” She stared at me for a moment or two, and then I realized for the first time, perhaps, what a really wonderful girl she was. For her hand went out impulsively to my sleeve and the eyes she raised to mine were full of sincerity. “I believe you, then,” she said simply, “and your reason does not matter.” I must have let some of my appreciation show in my eyes, for she flushed a delicious pink and dropped her own quickly. I leaned a little nearer to her: “And you see I can still be very, very glad about something!” I told her. She changed the subject rather hastily. “Do you remember my telling you about some wonderful tea I had had, just before our first meeting?” she asked. I hastened to assure her that I did remember, although we had discussed that tea several times and wondered about its peculiar properties. “Well, Mrs. Fawcette has promised me some more of it, and she is taking me there to tea this afternoon!” “To the same place?” I asked. Her words filled me with a vague apprehension, perhaps because by now I hated the thought of associating her closely with anything that had to do with my quest. “Yes, to the same place. _Now_ what’s the matter?” she added, laughing. “Well,” I answered, “frankly, I hate the thought of your taking drugs of any kind, however mild. You don’t belong in that crowd, Natalie.” She laughed. “Oh, but I must have some more of that tea, if only to convince myself that there was nothing in it, and that my queer mood _was_ only a mood.”