But Andree ... she was not unreal, not distant. She was very real, present in his heart—and yet she was of that other world, a stranger, an alien.... He loved her—but—There was always that _but_. He wrote still another letter and read it. Yes, he had decided. He could not give her up. He would bring her here and let the consequences be what they might.... The letter was placed in its envelop and he drew out his note-book to look for her address.... It was there, those written words which should forever remove Andree from the land of lovely mystery.... But he did not open the book. It lay in his hand, but he dared not open it.... He went to the window and looked out upon the street, that typically American, typically Middle-Western street.... He stood so for many minutes, then walked toward the fireplace and tossed the note-book into the blaze.... The thing was done, the decision was made and was irrevocable ... and Andree would always remain a glowing mystery.... He went again to his desk and wrote another letter. It was brief: DEAR MAUDE—There is no woman in my life but you. When you come home I shall come to you for my answer. He inclosed it, addressed it, stamped it, and went out to the post-box on the corner. Even now he hesitated a moment, but it was only a moment.... The letter dropped inside. It could not be recalled. But he did not move from the spot. For a long time he stood staring before him with eyes that did not see the typically American street, with a consciousness that did not feel his typically Middle-Western surroundings.... What he felt was that something true and faithful and beautiful had found a place in his life never to be removed. What he saw was a vision of Andree, waiting ... waiting.... THE END