To Marie the habit seemed most poetic. She said so, explaining that she was very fond of poetry. Loftus looked up at the stars. "The only real poetry is there. By the way, do you believe in God?" Marie, uncertain of her lover's creeds, hesitatingly glanced at him. "Yes--in a way. But I won't, if you object." This self-abnegation pleased Loftus. He twisted his mustache and smiled. "But no, you little goose, I don't object in the least. On the contrary. It is right and proper that you should." Gratified at this encouraging indulgence the girl's hand stole into his. Then for awhile they sat and talked about nothing whatever, which, of all subjects, is, perhaps, the least disagreeable. Wearying at last even of that, they got up to go. At the gate Marie drew back. A man was passing, swaying uncertainly, arguing with himself. "Why! it is Mr. Annandale," the girl in a frightened whisper murmured. "I wonder where he got all that liquor?" Loftus queried. "Not at Sylvia Waldron's, I'll wager." "Sylvia Waldron! What a sweet name," said Marie. "Who is she?" "The girl he is engaged to." "Is she pretty?" "Oh, tall and dark, don't you know. Not at all my style." But now night had swallowed Annandale. Loftus and Marie passed on. CHAPTER VI THE YELLOW FAY At noon the next day Annandale was not awake nor was he asleep. Through spaces in which memories met, entangled and sank, he was groping in search of himself. In these spaces there were things, some formless, others half-formed, that got between consciousness and interfered with the search. These things pulled at him, tripped him, shoved him down to the memories that were sinking below. The spaces themselves were very dark. But, in the deeper depths, where memories swooned, the darkness was punctuated by slender flames the size of pins. They burned him. Up and away he tried to rise. When he nearly succeeded, the things above, the things half-formed and formless that were waiting there, pushed him back. Again he tried. But the darkness was thick, the depths were thunderous, the things above pounded on his head, the thin flames lapped at him. A force took and lifted him high, very high, and suddenly dropped him. In the abrupt descent he clutched at the things, but he was whirled through them to receding plains and up again, higher, still higher. There a ray filtered, in the light of which a memory staggered. He saw himself drinking in the rooms of that girl of Loftus. From there he passed into blankness at the end of which stood Sylvia, her face white and drawn. The vision vanished. Then it seemed to him that he was drinking with a fat man who had prominent teeth which he took from his mouth and changed into dice. But where? In hell, perhaps. Annandale was uncertain. He knew merely that he had been beastly drunk and that his head was simply splitting.