it seemed the last notes of a dream. he had been awake for some minutes, but had feared to stir lest the voice should stop. slowly he unclosed his eyes. the voice went on. he had never heard such music; it was deep and sweet and luring. it was like the golden hair of the princess lettice lowered from her casement to her lover. it was like the silver feet of laughter twinkling up a beanstalk ladder to the stars. it was like spread wings, swooping and drifting over a fairyland of castellated tree-tops. now it wandered up the passage and seemed to halt behind the tapestry of absalom. now it grew infinitely distant until it was all but lost.

he eased himself out of bed. save for the pool of scarlet that weltered across floor and ceiling from the hearth, the room was filled with blackness.

“who’s there?” he whispered.

no answer. he tiptoed up the steps and out into the passage. it was long and gloomy; at the end of it a strip of light escaped from a door which had been left ajar. it was from there that the voice was calling. steadying himself with his hand against the wall, he stole noiselessly towards it just as he reached the strip of light the singing abruptly ended.

“no, hal. you shouldn’t do that. you do it too often. please not any more.”

“just once on your lips.”

“if it’s only once. you promise?”

“i promise.”

the door creaked. when he saw them, their bodies were still close together, but as they turned to glance across their shoulders their heads had drawn a little apart. her hands, resting on the keyboard, were held captive by the man’s. candles, flickering behind their heads, scorched a hole in the dusk to frame them.

the man’s face was boyish and clean-shaven, self-indulgent and almost handsome. it was a pleasant face: the corners of the mouth turned up with a hint of humor; the lips were full and kind; the eyes blue and impatient his complexion was high and his hair flaxen; his bearing sensitive and a little self-conscious. he was a man who could give himself excessively to any one he loved and who consequently would be always encountering new disappointments.

and the woman—she was like her voice: remote and passionate; haunting and unsatisfying; an instrument of romance for the awakening of idealized desires. she was fashioned no less for the attracting of love than for its repulse. her forehead was intensely white; her brows were like the shadow of wings, hovering and poised; her eyes now vague as a sea-cloud, now flashing like sudden gleams of blue-gray sunlight her hair was the color of ancient bronze—dark in the hollows and burnished at the edges. her throat was her glory—full and young, throbbing like a bird’s and slender as the stalk of a flower. it was her mouth that gave the key to her character. it could be any shape that an emotion made it: petulant and unreasonable; kind and gracious and adoring. she was a darkened house when she was unresponsive; there was no stir in her—she seemed uninhabited. in the street below her windows some chance traveler of thought or affection halted; instantly all her windows blazed and the people of her soul gazed out.

the odd little figure, hesitating in the doorway, had worked this miracle. her eyes, which had been troubled when first they rested on him, brightened. her lips relaxed. like a bubble rising from a still depth, laughter rippled up her throat and broke across the scarlet threshold of her mouth.

“oh, hal, what a darling! where did you get him? and what a dear, funny nightgown!”

she tore her hands free from the man’s. running to the little boy, she knelt beside him, bringing her face down to his level. as if to prevent him from escaping, she looped her arms about his neck.

“you are dear and funny,” she said. “where d’you come from?”

teddy was abashed. he didn’t mind being called dear, but he strongly objected to being called funny. he was terribly conscious of the pink flannel garment which clothed him. it hung like a sack from his narrow shoulders. if mrs. sheerug hadn’t safety-pinned a reef in at the neck, there would have been danger of its slipping off him. he couldn’t see his hands; they only reached to where his elbows ought to have been. he couldn’t see his feet; a yard of pink stuff draped them. he had had to kilt it to make his way along the passage. but the garment’s chief offense, as he regarded it, was that it was a woman’s: a rather stout middle-aged woman’s—the sort of woman who had given up trying to look pretty and probably wore a nightcap. teddy forgot that had he not been press-ganged into sickness, the beautiful lady’s arms would not have been about him. all he remembered was that he looked a caricature at a moment when—he scarcely knew why—he wanted to appear most manly. mrs. sheerug was responsible and he felt hotly resentful.

“where did you come from?”

“bed.”

“but isn’t it rather early to be in bed? perhaps you’re not well.”

“i’m quite well.” he spoke stubbornly, looking aside and trying to keep the tears back. “i’m quite well; it’s she who pretends i isn’t.”

“she! ah, i understand. poor old boy, never mind.”

she drew him against her breast and kissed him. he thought she would release him; but still she held him. he could feel the beating of her heart and the slow movement of her breath. he didn’t want her to let him go; but why did she still hold him? shyly he raised his eyes.

“won’t you smile?” she said. “i’d like to see what you look like. and now tell me, what made you come here?”

“i heard you,” he whispered. “please let me stay.”

she glanced back at the man; he sat where she had left him, by the piano, watching. she rather liked to make him jealous. turning to the child, she lowered her voice, “you’ll catch cold if you don’t get back to bed and i’ll be blamed for it. if i come with you, will that be as good as if i let you stay?”

“oh, better.”

“then kiss me.”

as she rose from her knees she gathered him in her arms. the man left his seat to follow. she paused in the doorway, gazing across her shoulder. “no, hal, it’s a time when you’re not wanted.”

“but vashti——”

she laughed mischievously. “i said no. there’s some one else to-night who wants me all to himself.”

when teddy became a man and looked back on that night there were two things that he remembered: the first was his pride and sense of triumph at hearing himself preferred to hal; the second was that love, as an inspiring and torturing reality, entered into his experience for the first time. as she carried him into the darkness of the passage which had been full of fears without her, her act seemed symbolic. gazing back from her arms, he saw the man—saw the perplexed humiliation of his expression, his aloneness and instinctively his tragedy, yet without pity and rather with contentment in later years all that happened to him seemed a refinement of spiritual revenge for his childish callousness. the solitary image of the man in the dim-lit room, his empty hands and following eyes took a place in the gallery of memory as a velasquezesque masterpiece—a composition in brown and white of the st. sebastian of a love self-pierced by the arrows of its own too great desire.