And herewith began a long and most painful struggle. I could persuade him to accept no help of any sort from me. “What I can’t do for myself,” he declared, “I’ll do without. My dear fellow, all that you propose is contrary to the laws of Nature. One man can’t keep another--it’s an impossible relation. And I won’t be kept; I won’t be a burden. Besides, to tell you the truth, I’ve got past caring. The situation you find me in seems terrible to you; to me it’s no worse than another. You see, I’m hardened; I’ve got past caring.” “At any rate,” I insisted, “I shan’t go on to Biarritz. I’ll spend my holiday here, and we can see each other every day. What time shall we meet to-morrow?” “No, no, I can’t meet you again. Don’t ask me to; you mean it kindly, I know, but you’re mistaken. It’s done me good to talk it all out to you, but I can’t meet you again. I’ve got no heart for friendship, and--you remind me too keenly of many things.” “But if I come to the _brasserie_ to-morrow night?” “Oh, if you do that, you’ll oblige me to throw up my employment there, and hide from you. You must promise not to come again--you must respect my wishes.” “You’re cruel, you know.” “Perhaps, perhaps. But I think I’m only reasonable. Anyhow, good-bye.” He shook my hand hurriedly, and moved off. What could I do? I stood looking after him till he had vanished in the night, with a miserable baffled recognition of my helplessness to help him. To a Bunch of Lilac By Theo Marzials “_Dis-moi la fleur, je te dirai la femme_” Is it the April springing, Or the bird in the breeze above? My throat is full of singing, My heart is full of love. O heart, are you not yet broken? O dream, so done with and dead, Is life’s one word not spoken, And the rede of it all not read? No hope in the whole world over! No hope in the infinite blue! Yet I sing and laugh out like a lover-- Oh, who is it, April--who? And the glad young year is springing; And the birds, and the breeze above, And the shrill tree-tops, are singing-- And I am singing--of love. * * * * * O beautiful lilac flowers, Oh, say, is it you, is it you The sun-struck, love-sick hours Go faint for murmuring through? O full of ineffable yearning, So balmy, mystical, deep, And faint beyond any discerning, Like far-off voices in sleep-- I love you, O lilac, I love you! Till life goes swooning by, I breathe and enwreathe and enfold you, And long but to love, and die. From a Pastel By Albert Foschter [Illustration] Apple Blossom in Brittany By Ernest Dowson I