CHAPTER V
On Monday, Desboro waited all the morning for her, meeting every train.At noon, she had not arrived. Finally, he called up her office and wasinformed that Miss Nevers had been detained in town on business, andthat their Mr. Kirk had telephoned him that morning to that effect.
He asked to speak to Miss Nevers personally; she had gone out, itappeared, and might not return until the middle of the afternoon.
So Desboro went home in his car and summoned Farris, the aged butler,who was pottering about in the greenhouses, which he much preferred toattending to his own business.
"Did anybody telephone this morning?" asked the master.
Farris had forgotten to mention it--was very sorry--and stood like anaged hound, head partly lowered and averted, already blinking under theawaited reprimand. But all Desboro said was:
"Don't do it again, Farris; there are some things I won't overlook."
He sat for a while in the library where a sheaf of her notes lay on thetable beside a pile of books--Grenville, Vanderdyne, Herrara's splendidfolios--just as she had left them on Saturday afternoon for the long,happy sleigh-ride that ended just in time for him to swing her aboardher train.
He had plenty to do beside sitting there with keen, gray eyes fixed onthe pile of manuscript she had left unfinished; he always had plenty todo, and seldom did it.
His first impulse had been to go to town. Her absence was making theplace irksome. He went to the long windows and stood there, hands in hispockets, smoking and looking out over the familiar landscape--a rollingcountry, white with snow, naked branches glittering with ice under thegilded blue of a cloudless sky, and to the north and west, low, woodedmountains--really nothing more than hills, but impressively steep andblue in the distance.
A woodpecker, one of the few feathered winter residents, flickeredthrough the trees, flashed past, and clung to an oak, stickingmotionless to the bark for a minute or two, bright eyes inspectingDesboro, before beginning a rapid, jerky exploration for sustenance.
The master of Silverwood watched him, then, hands driven deeper into hispockets, strolled away, glancing aimlessly at familiar objects--thestiff and rather picturesque portraits of his grandparents in the dressof 1820; the atrocious portraits of his parents in the awful costume of1870; his own portrait, life size, mounted on a pony.
He stood looking at the funny little boy, with the half contemptuous,half curious interest which a man in the pride of his strength and youthsometimes feels for the absurdly clothed innocence of what he was. And,as usual when noticing the picture, he made a slight, involuntary effortto comprehend that he had been once like that; and could not.
At the end of the library, better portraits hung--his great-grandmother,by Gilbert Stuart, still fresh-coloured and clear under the dim yellowvarnish which veiled but could not wither the delicate complexion andardent mouth, and the pink rosebud set where the folds of her whitekerchief crossed on her breast.
And there was her husband, too, by an unknown or forgotten painter--thesturdy member of the Provincial Assembly, and major in Colonel Thomas'sWestchester Regiment--a fine old fellow in his queue-ribbon and powderedhair standing in the conventional fortress port-hole, framed by it, andlooking straight out of the picture with eyes so much like Desboro'sthat it amused people. His easy attitude, too, the idle grace of theposture, irresistibly recalled Desboro, and at the moment more thanever. But he had been a man of vigour and of wit and action; and he waslying out there in the snow, under an old brown headstone embellishedwith cherubim; and the last of his name lounged here, in sight, from thewindows, of the spot where the first house of Desboro in America hadstood, and had collapsed amid the flames started by Tarleton'sblood-maddened troopers.
To and fro sauntered Desboro, passing, unnoticed, old-time framedengravings of the Desboros in Charles the Second's time, elegant, idle,handsome men in periwigs and half-armour, and all looking out at theworld through port-holes with a hint of the race's bodily grace in theirhalf insolent attitudes.
But office and preferment, peace and war, intrigue and plot, vigour andidleness, had narrowed down through the generations into a lastinheritance for this young man; and the very last of all the Desborosnow idled aimlessly among the phantoms of a race that perhaps hadbetter be extinguished.
He could not make up his mind to go to town or to remain in the vaguehope that she might come in the afternoon.
He had plenty to do--if he could make up his mind to begin--accounts togo over, household expenses, farm expenses, stable reports, agents'memoranda concerning tenants and leases, endless lists of necessaryrepairs. And there was business concerning the estate neglected, taxes,loans, improvements to attend to--the thousand and one details whichirritated him to consider; but which, although he maintained an agent intown, must ultimately come to himself for the final verdict.
What he wanted was to be rid of it all--sell everything, pension hisfather's servants, and be rid of the entire complex business which, hepretended to himself, was slowly ruining him. But he knew in his heartwhere the trouble lay, and that the carelessness, extravagance, thedisinclination for self-denial, the impatient and good-humoured aversionto economy, the profound distaste for financial detail, were steadilywrecking one of the best and one of the last of the old-time Westchesterestates.
In his heart he knew, too, that all he wanted was to concentratesufficient capital to give him the income he thought he needed.
No man ever had the income he thought he needed. And why Desbororequired it, he himself didn't know exactly; but he wanted sufficient tokeep him comfortable--enough so that he could feel he might do anythinghe chose, when, how, and where he chose, without fear or care for thefuture. And no man ever lived to enjoy such a state of mind, or to dothese things with impunity.
But Desboro's mind was bent on it; he seated himself at the librarytable and began to figure it out. Land in Westchester brought highprices--not exactly in that section, but near enough to make his acreagevaluable. Then, the house, stable, garage, greenhouses, the three farms,barns, cattle houses, water supply, the timber, power sites, meadow,pasture--all these ought to make a pretty figure. And he jotted it downfor the hundredth time in the last two years.
Then there was the Desboro collection. That ought to bring----
"And he sat thinking of Jacqueline Nevers"]
He hesitated, his pencil finally fell on the table, rolled to the edgeand dropped; and he sat thinking of Jacqueline Nevers, and of the weekthat had ended as the lights of her train faded far away into the winternight.
He sat so still and so long that old Farris came twice to announceluncheon. After a silent meal in company with the dogs and cats of lowdegree, he lighted a cigarette and went back into the library to resumehis meditations.
Whatever they were, they ceased abruptly whenever the distant telephonerang, and he waited almost breathlessly for somebody to come and saythat he was wanted on the wire. But the messages must have been to thecook or butler, from butcher, baker, and gentlemen of similarprofessions, for nobody disturbed him, and he was left free to sink backinto the leather corner of the lounge and continue his meditations. Oncethe furtive apparition of Mrs. Quant disturbed him, hovering ominouslyat the library door, bearing tumbler and spoon.
"I won't take it," he said decisively.
There was a silence, then:
"Isn't the young lady coming, Mr. James?"
"I don't know. No, probably not to-day."
"Is--is the child sick?" she stammered.
"No, of course not. I expect she'll be here in the morning."
* * * * *
She was not there in the morning. Mr. Mirk, the little old salesman inthe silk skull-cap, telephoned to Farris that Miss Nevers was againdetained in town on business at Mr. Clydesdale's, and that she mightemploy a Mr. Sissly to continue her work at Silverwood, if Mr. Desborodid not object. Mr. Desboro was to call her up at three o'clock if hedesired further information.
Des
boro went into the library and sat down. For a while his idlereflections, uncontrolled, wandered around the main issue, errantsatellites circling a central thought which was slowly emerging fromchaos and taking definite weight and shape. And the thought was ofJacqueline Nevers.
Why was he waiting here until noon to talk to this girl? Why was he hereat all? Why had he not gone South with the others? A passing fancy mightbe enough to arouse his curiosity; but why did not the fancy pass? Whatdid he want to say to her? What did he want of her? Why was he spendingtime thinking about her--disarranging his routine and habits to be herewhen she came? _What_ did he want of her? She was agreeable to talk to,interesting to watch, pretty, attractive. Did he want her friendship?To what end? He'd never see her anywhere unless he sought her out; hewould never meet her in any circle to which he had been accustomed,respectable or otherwise. Besides, for conversation he preferred men towomen.
What did he want with her or her friendship--or her blue eyes and brighthair--or the slim, girlish grace of her? What was there to do? How manymore weeks did he intend to idle about at her heels, follow her, look ather, converse with her, make a habit of her until, now, he found that tosuddenly break the habit of only a week's indulgence was annoying him!
And suppose the habit were to grow. Into what would it grow? And howunpleasant would it be to break when, in the natural course of events,circumstances made the habit inconvenient?
And, always, the main, central thought was growing, persisting. _What_did he want of her? He was not in love with her any more than he wasalways lightly in love with feminine beauty. Besides, if he were, whatwould it mean? Another affair, with all its initial charm and gaiety,its moments of frivolity, its moments of seriousness, its sudden crisis,its combats, perplexities, irresolution, the faint thrill of its deepersignificance startling both to clearer vision; and then the end,whatever it might be, light or solemn, irresponsible or care-ridden, gayor sombre, for one or the other.
What did he want? Did he wish to disturb her tranquility? Was he tryingto awaken her to some response? And what did he offer her to respond to?The flattery of his meaningless attentions, or the honour of falling inlove with a Desboro, whose left hand only would be offered to supportboth slim white hands of hers?
He ought to have gone South, and he knew it, now. Last week he had toldhimself--and her occasionally--that he was going South in a week. Andhere he was, his head on his hands and his elbows on the table, lookingvacantly at the pile of manuscript she had left there, and thinking ofthe things that should not happen to them both.
And who the devil was this fellow Sissly? Why had she suddenly changedher mind and suggested a creature named Sissly? Why didn't she finishthe cataloguing herself? She had been enthusiastic about it. Besides,she had enjoyed the skating and sleighing, and the luncheons and teas,and the cats and dogs--and even Mrs. Quant. She had said so, too. Andnow she was too busy to come any more.
Had he done anything? Had he been remiss, or had he ventured too manyattentions? He couldn't recall having done anything except to show herplainly enough that he enjoyed being with her. Nor had she concealed herbright pleasure in his companionship. And they had become such goodcomrades, understanding each other's moods so instinctively now--andthey had really found such unfeigned amusement in each other that itseemed a pity--a pity----
"Damn it," he said, "if she cares no more about it than that, she cansend Sissly, and I'll go South!"
But the impatience of hurt vanity died away; the desire to see her grew;the habit of a single week was already unpleasant to break. And it wouldbe unpleasant to try to forget her, even among his own friends, even inthe South, or in drawing-rooms, or at the opera, or at dances, or inany of his haunts and in any sort of company.
He might forget her if he had only known her better, discovered more ofher real self, unveiled a little of her deeper nature. There was so muchunexplored--so much that interested him, mainly, perhaps, because he hadnot discovered it. For theirs had been the lightest and gayest offriendships, with nothing visible to threaten a deeper entente; merely,on her part, a happy enjoyment and a laughing parrying in the eternalcombat that never entirely ends, even when it means nothing. And on hisside it had been the effortless attentions of a man aware of her youngand unspoiled charm--conscious of an unusual situation which alwaysfascinates all men.
He had had no intention, no idea, no policy except to drift as far asthe tides of destiny carried him in her company. The situation wasagreeable; if it became less so, he could take to the oars and row wherehe liked.
But the tides had carried him to the edge of waters less clear; he wasvaguely aware of it now, aware, too, that troubled seas lay somewherebehind the veil.
The library clock struck three times. He got up and went to thetelephone booth. Miss Nevers was there; would speak to him if he couldwait a moment. He waited. Finally, a far voice called, greeting himpleasantly, and explaining that matters which antedated her business atSilverwood had demanded her personal attention in town. To his requestfor particulars, she said that she had work to do among the jades andChinese porcelains belonging to a Mr. Clydesdale.
"I know him," said Desboro curtly. "When do you finish?"
"I have finished for the present. Later there is further work to be doneat Mr. Clydesdale's. I had to make certain arrangements before I went toyou--being already under contract to Mr. Clydesdale, and at his servicewhen he wanted me."
There was a silence. Then he asked her when she was coming toSilverwood.
"Did you not receive my message?" she asked.
"About--what's his name? Sissly? Yes, I did, but I don't want him. Iwant you or nobody!"
"You are unreasonable, Mr. Desboro. Lionel Sissly is a very celebratedconnoisseur."
"Don't you want to come?"
"I have so many matters here----"
"Don't you _want_ to?" he persisted.
"Why, of course, I'd like to. It is most interesting work. But Mr.Sissly----"
"Oh, hang Mr. Sissly! Do you suppose he interests me? You said that thiswork might take you weeks. You said you loved it. You apparentlyexpected to be busy with it until it was finished. Now, you propose tosend a man called Sissly! Why?"
"Don't you know that I have other things----"
"What have I done, Miss Nevers?"
"I don't understand you."
"What have I done to drive you away?"
"How absurd! Nothing! And you've been so kind to me----"
"You've been kind to me. Why are you no longer?"
"I--it's a question--of business--matters which demand----"
"Will you come once more?"
No reply.
"Will you?" he repeated.
"Is there any reason----"
"Yes."
Another pause, then:
"Yes, I'll come--if there's a reason----"
"When?"
"To-morrow?"
"Do you promise?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll meet you as usual."
"Thank you."
He said: "How is your skating jacket coming along?"
"I have--stopped work on it."
"Why?"
"I do not expect to--have time--for skating."
"Didn't you ever expect to come up here again?" he asked with a slightshiver.
"I thought that Mr. Sissly could do what was necessary."
"Didn't it occur to you that you were ending a friendship ratherabruptly?"
She was silent.
"Don't you think it was a trifle brusque, Miss Nevers?"
"Does the acquaintanceship of a week count so much with you, Mr.Desboro?"
"You know it does."
"No. I did not know it. If I had supposed so, I would have written apolite letter regretting that I could no longer personally attend to thebusiness in hand."
"Doesn't it count at all with you?" he asked.
"What?"
"Our friendship."
"Our acquaintanceship of a single week? Why, ye
s. I remember it withpleasure--your kindness, and Mrs. Quant's----"
"How on earth can you talk to me that way?"
"I don't understand you."
"Then I'll say, bluntly, that it meant a lot to me, and that the placeis intolerable when you're not here. That is specific, isn't it?"
"Very. You mean that, being accustomed to having somebody to amuse you,your own resources are insufficient."
"Are you serious?"
"Perfectly. That is why you are kind enough to miss my coming andgoing--because I amuse you."
"Do you think that way about me?"
"I do when I think of you. You know sometimes I'm thinking of otherthings, too, Mr. Desboro."
He bit his lip, waited for a moment, then:
"If you feel that way, you'll scarcely care to come up to-morrow.Whatever arrangement you make about cataloguing the collection will beall right. If I am not here, communications addressed to the OlympianClub will be forwarded----"
"Mr. Desboro!"
"Yes?"
"Forgive me--won't you?"
There was a moment's interval, fraught heavily with the possibilitiesof Chance, then the silent currents of Fate flowed on toward herappointed destiny and his--whatever it was to be, wherever it lay,behind the unstirring, inviolable veil.
"Have you forgiven me?"
"And you me?" he asked.
"I have nothing to forgive; truly, I haven't. Why did you think I had?Because I have been talking flippantly? You have been so uniformlyconsiderate and kind to me--you _must_ know that it was nothing you saidor did that made me think--wonder--whether--perhaps----"
"What?" he insisted. But she declined further explanation in a voice sodifferent, so much gayer and happier than it had sounded before, that hewas content to let matters rest--perhaps dimly surmising somethingapproaching the truth.
She, too, noticed the difference in his voice as he said:
"Then may I have the car there as usual to-morrow morning?"
"Please."
He drew an unconscious sigh of relief. She said something more that hecould scarcely hear, so low and distant sounded her voice, and he askedher to repeat it.
"I only said that I would be happy to go back," came the far voice.
Quick, unconsidered words trembled on his lips for utterance; perhapsfear of undoing what had been done restrained him.
"Not as happy as I will be to see you," he said, with an effort.
"Thank you. Good-bye, Mr. Desboro."
"Good-bye."
* * * * *
The sudden accession of high spirits filled him with delightfulimpatience. He ranged the house restlessly, traversing the hallway andsilent rooms. A happy inclination for miscellaneous conversationimpelled him to long-deferred interviews with people on the place. Hetalked business to Mrs. Quant, to Michael, the armourer; he put onsnow-shoes and went cross lots to talk to his deaf head-farmer, Vail.Then he came back and set himself resolutely to his accounts; and afterdinner he wrote letters, a yellow pup dozing on his lap, a cat purringon his desk, and occasionally patting with tentative paw theletter-paper when it rustled.
A mania for cleaning up matters which had accumulated took possession ofhim--and it all seemed to concern, in some occult fashion, the coming ofJacqueline on the morrow--as though he wished to begin again with aclean slate and a conscience undisturbed. But what he was to begin hedid not specify to himself.
Bills--heavy ones--he paid lightly, drawing check after check to covernecessities or extravagances, going straight through the long list ofliabilities incurred from top to bottom.
Later, the total troubled him, and he made himself do a thing to whichhe was averse--balance his check-book. The result dismayed him, and hesat for a while eyeing the sheets of carelessly scratched figures, andstroking the yellow pup on his knees.
"What do I want with all these clubs and things?" he said impatiently."I never use 'em."
On the spur of impulse, he began to write resignations, wholesale,ridding himself of all kinds of incumbrances--shooting clubs in Virginiaand Georgia and North Carolina, to which he had paid dues andassessments for years, and to which he had never been; fishing clubs inMaine and Canada and Nova Scotia and California; New York clubs,including the Cataract, the Old Fort, the Palisades, the Cap and Bells,keeping only the three clubs to which men of his sort are supposed tobelong--the Patroons, the Olympian, and his college club. But everythingelse went--yacht clubs, riding clubs, golf clubs, country clubs of everysort--everything except his membership in those civic, educational,artistic, and charitable associations to which such New York families ashis owed a moral and perpetual tribute.
It was nearly midnight when the last envelope was sealed and stamped,and he leaned back with a long, deep breath of relief. To-morrow hewould apply the axe again and lop off such extravagances assaddle-horses in town, and the two cars he kept there. They should go tothe auction rooms; he'd sell his Long Island bungalow, too, and theschooner and the power boats, and his hunters down at Cedar Valley; andwith them would go groom and chauffeur, captain and mechanic, and thethousand maddening expenses that were adding daily to a total debt thathad begun secretly to appal him.
In his desk he knew there was an accumulated mass of unpaid bills. Heremembered them now and decided he didn't want to think about them.Besides, he'd clear them away pretty soon--settle accounts with tailor,bootmaker, haberdasher--with furrier, modiste and jeweler--and a dullred settled under his cheek bones as he remembered these latter bills,which he would scarcely care to exhibit to the world at large.
"Ass that I've been," he muttered, absently stroking the yellow pup.Which reflection started another train of thought, and he went to adesk, unlocked it, pulled out the large drawer, and carried it with itscontents to the fireplace.
The ashes were still alive and the first packet of letters presentlycaught fire. On them he laid a silken slipper of Mrs. Clydesdale's andwatched it shrivel and burn. Next, he tossed handfuls of unassortedtrifles, letters, fans, one or two other slippers, gloves of differentsizes, dried remnants of flowers, programmes scribbled over; and whenthe rubbish burned hotly, he added photographs and more letters withouteven glancing at them, except where, amid the flames, he caught amomentary glimpse of some familiar signature, or saw some pretty,laughing phantom of the past glow, whiten to ashes, and evaporate.
Fire is a great purifier; he felt as though the flames had washed hishands. Much edified by the moral toilet, and not concerned that all suchablutions are entirely superficial, he watched with satisfaction thelast bit of ribbon shrivel, the last envelope flash into flame. Then hereplaced the desk drawer, leaving the key in it--because there was nowno reason why all the world and its relatives should not rummage if theyliked.
He remembered some letters and photographs and odds and ends scatteredabout his rooms in town, and made a mental note to clear them out of hislife, too.
Mentally detached, he stood aloof in spirit and viewed with interest thespectacle of his own regeneration, and calmly admired it.
"I'll cut out all kinds of things," he said to himself. "A devout girlin Lent will have nothing on me. Nix for the bowl! Nix for the fat pathand! Throw up the sponge! Drop the asbestos curtain!" He made pretenceto open an imaginary door: "Ladies, pass out quietly, please; the showis over."
The cat woke up and regarded him gravely; he said to her:
"You don't even need a pocket-book, do you? And you are quite right;having things is a nuisance. The less one owns the happier one is. Doyou think I'll have sense enough to remember this to-morrow, and not beass enough to acquire more--a responsibility, for example? Do you thinkI can be trusted to mind my business when _she_ comes to-morrow? And notsay something that I'll be surely sorry for some day--or somethingshe'll be sorry for? Because she's so pretty, pussy--so disturbinglypretty--and so sweet. And I ought to know by this time that intelligenceand beauty are a deadly combination I had better let alone until I findthem in the other sort of girl
. That's the trouble, pussy." He liftedthe sleepy cat and held it at arm's length, where it dangled, purringall the while. "That's the trouble, kitty. I haven't the slightestintentions; and as for friends, men prefer men. And that's the truth,between you and me. It's rather rotten, isn't it, pussy? But I'll becareful, and if I see that she is capable of caring for me, I'll goSouth before it hurts either of us. That will be the square thing to do,I suppose--and neither of us the worse for another week together."
He placed the cat on the floor, where it marched to and fro with tailerect, inviting further attentions. But Desboro walked about, turningout the electric lights, and presently took himself off to bed, fixed ina resolution that the coming week should be his last with this unusualgirl. For, after all, he concluded she had not moved his facileimagination very much more than had other girls of various sorts, whosesouvenirs lay now in cinders on his hearth, and long since had turned toashes in his heart.
What was the use? Such affairs ended one way or another--but they alwaysended. All he wanted to find out, all he was curious about, was whethersuch an unusual girl could be moved to response--he merely wanted toknow, and then he would let her alone, and no harm done--nothing todisturb the faint fragrance of a pretty souvenir that he and she mightcarry for a while--a week or two--perhaps a month--before they bothforgot.
And, conscious of his good intentions, feeling tranquil, complacent, andslightly noble, he composed himself to slumber, thinking how muchhappier this world would be if men invariably behaved with theself-control that occasionally characterised himself.
* * * * *
In the city, Jacqueline lay awake on her pillow, unable to find a refugein sleep from the doubts, questions, misgivings assailing her.
Wearied, impatient, vexed, by turns, that her impulse and decisionshould keep her sleepless--that the thought of going back to Silverwoodshould so excite her, she turned restlessly in her bed, unwilling tounderstand, humiliated in heart, ashamed, vaguely afraid.
Why should she have responded to an appeal from such a man as Desboro?Her own calm judgment had been that they had seen enough of eachother--for the present, anyway. Because she knew, in her scared soul,that she had not meant it to be final--that some obscure idea remainedof seeing him again, somewhere.
Yet, something in his voice over the wire--and something more disturbingstill when he spoke so coolly about going South--had swayed her in herpurpose to remain aloof for a while. But there was no reason, after all,for her to take it so absurdly. She would go once more, and then permita long interval to elapse before she saw him again. If she actually had,as she began to believe, an inclination for his society, she would showherself that she could control that inclination perfectly.
Why should any man venture to summon her--for it was a virtual summonsover the wire--and there had been arrogance in it, too. His curtacquiescence in her decision, and his own arbitrary decision to go Southhad startled her out of her calmly prepared role of business woman. Shewas trying to recall exactly what she had said to him afterward to makehis voice change once more, and her own respond so happily.
Why should seeing him be any unusual happiness to her--knowing who andwhat he had been and was--a man of the out-world with which she had notone thing in common--a man who could mean nothing to her--could not evenremain a friend because their two lives would never even run withinsight of each other.
She would never know anybody he knew. They would never meet anywhereexcept at Silverwood. How could they, once the business between them wastransacted? She couldn't go to Silverwood except on business; he wouldnever think of coming here to see her. Could she ask him--venture,perhaps, to invite him to dinner with some of her friends? Whichfriends? Cynthia and--who else? The girls she knew would bore him; he'dhave only contempt for the men.
Then what did all this perplexity mean that was keeping her awake? Andwhy was she going back to Silverwood? Why! Why! Was it to see with herown eyes the admiration for herself in his? She had seen it more thanonce. Was it to learn more about this man and his liking for her--toventure a guess, perhaps, as to how far that liking might carry him witha little encouragement--which she would not offer, of course?
She began to wonder how much he really did like her--how greatly hemight care if she never were to see him again. Her mind answered her,but her heart appealed wistfully from the clear decision.
Lying there, blue eyes open in the darkness, head cradled on her crossedarms, she ventured to recall his features, summoning them shyly out ofspace; and she smiled, feeling the tension subtly relaxing.
Then she drifted for a while, watching his expression, a little dreadinglest even his phantom laugh at her out of those eyes too wise.
Visions came to her awake to reassure her; he and she in a sleightogether under the winter stars--he and she in the sunlight, theirskates flashing over the frozen meadows--he and she in the armoury,heads together over some wonder of ancient craftsmanship--he and she atluncheon--in the library--always he and she together in happycompanionship. Her eyelids fluttered and drooped; and sleep came, anddreams--wonderful, exquisite, past belief--and still of him and ofherself together, always together in a magic world that could not beexcept for such as they.