"Oh, yes, take him day by day, like an evening paper. I'm referring to his article on 'Ancient Beliefs in a Future State.'" "What's that--the belief of old maids that they'll get married?" "Now you are blasphemous," she cried with a pretty pout. "How? Are old maids a sacred subject?" "Everything old should be sacred to us," she said simply. "But you know that is not what I mean." "Then why do you say it?" he asked. "Oh, what a tease you are!" she cried. "I shan't be sorry to be quit of you. Your flippancy is quite dreadful." "Why, do you believe in a future state?" he said. "Of course I do. If we had only one life, it would not be worth living." "But nine times one life _would_ be worth living. Is that the logic? If so, happy cats! I wonder," he added irrelevantly, "why the number nine always goes with cats--nine lives, nine tails, nine muses?" Ellaline made a _moue_ and shrank petulantly away from him. "I will not discuss our future state, unless you are prepared to do it seriously," she said. "I am," he replied with sudden determination. "Let us enter it together. I am tired of the life I've been leading, and I love you." "What!" she said in a little horrified whisper. "You want us to commit suicide together?" "No, no--matrimony. I cannot do it alone--I have never had the courage to do it at all. With you at my side, I should go forward, facing the hereafter cheerfully, with faith and trust." "I--I--am--afraid--I----" she stammered. "Why should you be afraid?" he interrupted. "Have you no faith and trust in me?" "Oh, yes," she said with a frank smile, "if I had not confidence in you, I should not be here with you." "You angel!" he said, his eyes growing wet under her clear, limpid gaze. "But you love me a little, too?" "I do not," she said, shaking her head demurely. John Beveridge groaned. After so decisive an avowal from the essence of candor, what remained to be said? Nothing but to bid her and his hopes farewell--the latter at once, the former as soon as she was escorted back to Trepolpen. His affection had grown so ripe, he could not exchange it for the green fruit of friendship. And yet, was this to be the end of all that sweet idyllic interlude, a jarring note and then silence for evermore? "But could you never learn to love me?" She laughed her girlish, ringing laugh. "I am not so backward as all that," she said. "I mastered it in a dozen lessons." He stared at her, a wild hope kindling in his eyes. "Did I hear aright?" he asked in a horse tone. She nodded, still smiling. "Then I did not hear aright before?" "Oh, yes, you did. I said I did not love you a little. I love you a great deal." There were tears in the gray eyes now, but they smiled on. He caught her in his arms and the Devonshire lane was transformed to Eden. How exquisite this angelic frankness, when the words pleased! How delicious the frankness of her caress when words were _de trop_!