Almost at my side Bobby stops, panting a little. I speak first. Women always do. I feel sure Eve opened the conversation when Adam waked from the sleep that deprived him of a rib and supplied him with a wife. “So you have come again—and not alone this time.” It is not in the least what I meant to say. “Did you know that I came?” Bobby’s low voice holds a note of surprise. “How did you know? But I suppose the boy told you.” “I was in the garden. I saw you. I know why you came, and why you left.” “Why did I leave?” “You ran from a youthful ideal.” “Men have done more foolish things,” Bobby’s answer comes gravely. “And wiser.” I hate the mocking laughter that escapes my lips. “I don’t understand you.” His face has grown whiter; it has changed subtly. “Has Elliott been here? Is it Elliott?” I sweetly assure him that Mr. Elliott has been here, and I manage to leave the impression that he may be coming again. This time Bobby’s face goes close to black. With a mocking little bow he bids me good-bye, turns, goes down the road. He marches straight ahead. I have never seen a lion stalk through an African jungle, but I think of one as I look at him. Where is he going? Where is Dicky’s lover going? A dumb sort of fright grips me. I spin down the road to where he marches breast forward with never a backward look—if a woman can spin in these narrow-not-made-to-overtake-anybody’s-lover New York frocks. “Bobby,” I cry, hard upon him, “stop!” He turns. Not the Bobby of my letters, not the Bobby of my dreams, not the Bobby of Washington Square, a politely impatient-to-be-gone stranger. Always, it is the unexpected that overtakes me. To my amazed surprise I wet with salty tears my New York finery. “I’m tired, Bobby,” I gasp. “I’ve been having a party—and I’m not used to having parties. That’s what makes me such a cat. And, oh, Bobby, you’ll have to pardon things—Dicky just sprung your coming on us.” “Dicky didn’t know that I was coming.” He speaks slowly, he takes my face in his hands and looks down at me, a long, deep look. The hard, black look on his own face has lifted. As I try to tell him that Dicky didn’t tell me he was ill, that I have just learned it from Mr. Elliott’s letter, as I try to tell him what the bright May world would be to Dicky with him gone out of it, and as I flounder that I hope they will be heavenly happy, I splash more tears on my pretty clothes. Bobby’s face flashes—all that a woman could want or dream of comes into it. “Dicky didn’t know I was in the hospital. I went in under an assumed name. When a fellow’s tied up with publishers and theatrical people like I am——” Bobby drops the subject as one that holds no further interest. “If I had died, would it have spoiled the May world for you, Caroline?” There is a sharp note of anxiety in his voice. “Bobby, Bobby!” I cry, wildly. “Don’t ask me! What have you done with Dicky! Where is Dicky?”