Nora listened to this flow of sweet unreason without staying her hand in the work, which, as she perceived the drift of his talk, she had rapidly caught up, but with a beating heart and a sense of rising tears. It was a ravishing mixture of passion and reason, the agony of a restless soul. Of old, she had thought of Hubert’s nature as immutably placid and fixed; it gave her the notion of lucid depth and soundless volume. But of late, with greater nearness, she had seen the ripples on its surface and heard it beating its banks. This was not the first time; but the waves had never yet broken so high; she had never felt their salt spray on her cheeks. The touch of it now was delicious. She went on with her work, mechanically taking her stitches. She felt Hubert’s intense blue eyes; the little blue flower in her tapestry grew under her quick needle. A door had suddenly been opened between their hearts; she passed through it. “What is it you imagine,” she asked, with intense curiosity: “what is it you dream of doing?” “I dream,” he said, “of breaking some law for your sake!” The answer frightened her; passion was outstripping reason. What had she to do with broken laws? She trembled and rolled up her work. “I dream,” she said, trying to smile, “of the beauty of keeping laws. I expect to get a deal of pleasure from it yet.” And she left her chair. For an instant Hubert was confused. Was this the last struggle which precedes submission, or the mere prudence of indifference? Nora’s eyes were on the clock. It rang out eleven. “To begin with,” she said, “let me keep the law of going early to bed. Good night!” Hubert wondered; he hardly knew whether this was a rebuke or a challenge. “You will at least shake hands,” he said reproachfully. She had meant in self-defence to omit this ceremony, but she let him take her hand. Hubert gazed at her a moment and raised it to his lips. She blushed, and rapidly withdrew it. “There!” cried Hubert, “I have broken a law!” “Much good may it do you!” she answered, and went her way. He stood for a moment, waiting, and fancying, rather fatuously, that she might come back. Then, as he took up his hat, he wondered whether she too was not a bit of a coquette.