“Oh, Gerry!” repeated Teddie, hugging him tight. And she kissed him again, out of sheer relief at finding him still anchored to the same muddled-up old world with her. “You’ll have to marry me for this, remember!” announced Gerry, doing his best to look magisterial. “I couldn’t live without you, Gerry,” she had the honesty to acknowledge. “And they said I was going to lose you!” “Not if I know it,” proclaimed her captive. Teddie looked up for a moment at the sadly wrecked roadster. “But it wasn’t sporting of me, Gerry!” “What wasn’t?” “Everything—everything I’ve done!” Gerry reached out with his one good arm. “No queen, Teddie, can possibly do wrong. But there’s one thing, Belovedness, I want to know, I’ve got to know.” “What is it?” “I’ve got to know just why you kissed me!” Teddie studied him with solemn eyes. Then she studied the lengthening shadows along the valley-slope and the blue hills beyond. “Because, Gerry, you’re so different from other men,” she finally acknowledged. The Lost Titian CHAPTER ONE Conkling stopped his car. He drew up, dry and dust-laden, in the narrow green gullet of the side-road overhung with sycamore and soft maple. A cooler breath of air sighed out through the oval frame of verdure slightly powdered with road-dust and slightly suggestive of a woman with prematurely silvered temples. Conkling sat staring down the open throat of the hill-lane which dropped away like a waterfall toward the misty blue of Lake Erie. To the east he could see the opal green of Rond-Eau, iridescent as mercury in its verdigris-tinted shadow-box of rushes and wild-rice. Beyond that confusion of intermingling greens he could see the long line of Pointe Aux Pins, seeming neither main-land nor cloud-land, but floating aerially in the veiled light, as misted and mirage-like as the ghostly plume of smoke trailing behind a ghostly coal-boat nosing slowly in toward the harbor. Directly in front of him he could see only the diminishing mottled terraces of the tree-tops selvaged with the paler green of willows where the lake-cliffs ended abruptly in the pallid blue of the water. A mile out on this water, hazy with the windless heat of August, he could discern the vague L of a pile-driver, floating beside a row of pound-stakes. It floated there ghostly and insubstantial, a blurred and lonely shadow that seemed to belong more to the air than to the water.