Rose _was_ beautiful--it was Ted and Rose by now. He would like to see someone paint her sometime as Summer, drowsy and golden, passing through fields of August, holding close to her rich warm body the tall sheaves of her fruitful corn. And again the firelight crept close to him, and under its touch all his senses stirred like leaves in light wind, glad to be hurt with firelight and then left soothed and heavy and warm. Only now he had a charm against what the firelight meant--what it had been meaning more and more these last few weeks with Rose Severance. It was not a very powerful-looking charm--a dozen lines of a letter from Elinor Piper asking him to come to Southampton, but it began “Dear Ted” and ended “Elinor” and he thought it would serve. That ought to be enough--that small thing only magical from what you made it mean against what it really was--that wish that nobody could even nickname hope--to keep you cool against the waves of firelight that rose over you like the scent of a harvest meadow. It was, almost. Rose had been telling him how unhappy she was all evening. Not whiningly--and not, as he remembered later, with any specific details--but in a way that made him feel as if he, as part of the world that had hurt her, were partly responsible. And to want exceedingly to help. And then the only way he could think of helping was to put himself like kindling into the firelight, and he mustn't do that. “Elinor” he said under his breath like an exorcism, but Rose was very breathing and good to look at and in the next chair. His fingers took a long time getting his watch. “I've _got_ to go Rose, really.” “Must you? What's the time--eleven?--why heavens, I've kept you here ages, haven't I, and done nothing but moan about my troubles all the time.” “You know I liked it.” Ted's voice was curiously boyishly honest in a way he hated but a way that was one of Rose's reasons why he was here with her. “Well, come again,” she said frankly. “It was fun. I loved it.” “I will--Lord knows I thank you enough--after 252A Madison Avenue it was simply perfect. And Rose--” “Well?” “I'm awful damn sorry. I wish I could help.” He thought she was going to laugh. Instead she turned perfectly grave. “I wish you could, Ted.” They shook hands--it seemed to Ted with a good deal of effort to do only that. Then they stood looking at each other. There was so little between them--only a charm that nobody could say was even partly real--but somewhere in Ted's brain it said “Elinor” and he managed to shake hands again and get out of the door. Mrs. Severance waited several minutes, listening, a faint smile curling her mouth with intentness and satisfaction. No, this time he wouldn't come back--nor next time, maybe--but there would be other times---