during the past two hours since he had breakfasted, he had watched the telephone as though it were a live thing—as though it were her lips which might speak to him at any moment he felt that she was there in the room with him, obstinately keeping silent.

she had told him not to disturb her till eleven, but he had persuaded himself that he would hear from her long before that—at nine, perhaps; at ten, at latest. she had tried to appear offhand in arranging the appointment because another man had been present he pretended to think it rather decent of her to have let the chap down so lightly.

during every minute of the last two hours, he had been expecting to hear the shrill tinkle of her summons. as he bent above his writing his heart was in his throat he kept glancing up, telling himself that his sixth sense had warned him that her voice was already asking its way across the wires. though previous premonitions had proved unwarranted, he was confident that his latest was truly psychic.

surely a girl who knew that she was loved wouldn’t sleep away the freshness of a blue september morning! curiosity, if nothing better, would rouse her. it didn’t often happen that a man came three thousand miles to do his courting. she’d kept him waiting so long. if she felt one-tenth part of his impatience——

he finished his letter to his mother. it was all about his voyage and the interviews of yesterday. he ought to tell her more—but how, without telling her too much?

he scrawled a postscript, “by the way, yesterday i met vashti”; then sealed the envelope. by the time an inquiry could be returned, he would know everything. he would know for certain whether desire loved him. he pulled out his watch. a few minutes past ten! to keep his nerves quiet he made a pretense at working. he would outline the first of his series of articles.

but his thoughts wandered. there was no room in his mind for anything save her. she possessed him. the birdlike inflexions of her voice piped in his memory; he could hear her laughter, the murmur of her footsteps, the rustle of her dress. the subtle fragrance of her presence was all about him. in the silence of his brain she pleaded with him, taunted him, explained her omissions of consideration. “you don’t know what things have done to me—don’t know what things have done to me.”

it was useless; he gave up his attempt. all he had accomplished was to fill a page with sketches of her face. here she was as he had seen her last night, fashionably attired, with her hair like a crown of bronze upon her forehead. and here as the guinevere of that bewildering drive, mystic as the dawn in a web of shadows. and here as the coaxing, elusive sprite, who had scribbled her heart upon the dusty panes of childhood.

would he ever be able to work again, ever be able to pursue any ambition or any dream in which she did not share?

he rose restlessly and fumbled for his watch. a minute to eleven! he stepped across to the telephone. while the boy at the switchboard was getting his number, he tapped with his foot, consumed with impatience.

“madame jodrell’s apartment?—i want to speak to miss desire.—oh, no, i’m sure she’s not sleeping. you’re mistaken.” he laughed nervously. “this is mr. gurney. she asked me to ring her up at eleven.”

silence. a long wait. “she’ll speak to you, sir.” the clicking of a new connection. he heard the receiver taken down at the other end and a curious sound which, after puzzling over, he decided must be the running of bathwater.

“are you there?”

he listened.

“is that you, desire?”

no answer.

then she gave herself away. across the wire came to him a stifled yawn, followed by a bubbling little laugh.

“yes, it’s desire. what a lot of time you’re wasting. a whole minute! time enough to decide the destiny of nations. and weren’t you punctual!—can you come at once! certainly not. can’t you guess where i am? i shan’t be ready till twelve.—oh, well, if you don’t mind waiting, i’ll expect you.”

he had intended to say more, but she rang off.

streets were gilded with sunlight the sky was a smooth shell-like blue, without a cloud. it seemed much more distant than any sky he had seen in london. over london the sky broods companionably; from london streets, even at their merriest the hint of melancholy is never absent but here, in new york, he was conscious of an invigorating reckless valor, a magnificent and lonely daring. it was every man for himself. there was no friendship between the city and the heavens; as ladders of stone were set up higher against the blue, the heavens receded in challenge.

there was a tang of autumn in the air. leaves on trees began to have a brittle look. everything shone: trolley-lines, windows, the slender height of sky-scrapers. it was a wide day—just the day for adventures.

as he passed further uptown, he noticed that people walked more leisurely; men’s faces grew rarer. he had a glimpse of the park, a green valley of coolness between the quarried, sun-dazzled crags of the metropolis. presently he turned off to the left, down one of those tunnels hewn between apartment-houses and sacred to the morning promenades of yapping dogs—proud little useless dogs like twinkles, led on leashes by lately-risen mistresses. then, in a flash, he saw the hudson, going from one great quietness to another, sweeping down to the ocean full-bosomed and maternal from its sanctuary in the hills.

the elevator-boy seemed to have been warned of his coming; when he gave his name, he was taken up without suspicious preliminaries.

“miss desire hasn’t finished dressing yet,” the maid told, him. “if you’ll wait in here, she’ll be with you presently.”

he was shown into the room in which vashti had played to him. he hadn’t taken much notice of it on his previous visit now, as he tiptoed about he saw that it was expressive of its occupants’ personalities. it had a gay, delicate, insubstantial air. it didn’t look lived in. everything could be packed up within an hour. it wasn’t a home; it was what vashti had called a “perch.”

the furniture was slight and dainty, as though there for appearance rather than for use. the sofa by the window seemed the only piece meant to be sat on. on the table a dwarf japanese garden was growing. beside it lay a copy of wisdom and destiny, opened and turned face down. the books within sight were few, for the most part plays and the latest fiction. they were strewn about with a calculated carelessness. on the walls was a water-color of the grand canal and another of the bay of naples. the rest of the pictures were elaborate photos of actresses, with spidery signatures scrawled across them. one face predominated: the face of a beautiful woman, with a vague smile upon her childish, self-indulgent mouth and a soft mass of hair swathed about her head. she was taken in a variety of poses, but always with the same vague smile and always with her face stooping, as though she were trying to hypnotize the onlooker. one might have supposed that this was the den of a man who was in love with her. scratched hurriedly in the corner of each of her portraits, prefaced by some extravagant sentiment, was the name “fluffy.”

on the piano stood the photo of the only man in the collection, signed “to my dearest girl.”

teddy paused before it. he recognized the man who had brought desire home last night—the man who had kept her from him. “to my dearest girl.” he read and re-read it. was that the secret of her indifference—that she was in love already? but wouldn’t vashti have warned him? he stared his defiance. the more inaccessible she became to him, the more he felt the need of her. something of the valor and bright hardness of the day had entered into his soul. he was like those tall buildings, climbing more recklessly into the blue every time the sky receded from them. he didn’t care who claimed her. he was glad that he would have to fight. she was his by the divine right of the dreamer, and had been his for years. at whatever sacrifice he would win her. inconsistently, the more difficult she became to him, the more certain he grew of success.

“hulloa, king arthur! getting impatient? i’ll soon be> with you.”

he stepped to the door and looked out into the passage. “impatient! of course i’m impatient. where are you?”

her laugh floated back. “where you’re not allowed to come. you can’t complain; i told you i wouldn’t be dressed till twelve.”

“it’s nearer one by now.”

“is it? but you’ve nothing to do. if you hunt about, you’ll find some cigarettes. make yourself happy.”

he had hoped she would continue the conversation; but her voice grew secret as she whispered to her maid. he heard cupboards and drawers being opened and shut, a snatch of song, and, every now and then, the infectious gayety of her laughter.

he came back into the room and smiled at the photo on the piano. “she mayn’t be in love with me yet, but she’s certainly not in love with you,” he thought. then he stood gazing at his unresponsive rival, wondering how much he could tell.

he was still intent upon the portrait when she danced across the threshold, swinging her gloves.

“taking a look at tom? be careful; you’ll make him jealous.” she slipped her small hand into his. “i can’t tell you how good it is to see you.”

“d’you mean that—that you’re really glad?”

her eyes sparkled with mischief, but she said demurely: “why shouldn’t i mean it? i’m always glad to see my friends.—and now, don’t you think you’ve held my hand long enough? see how lonely it looks, just as if it were asking me to put on its glove.”

she tripped over to the window and gazed out. “isn’t it glorious?—and i feel so happy—so full of life, so young.” her back was towards him; she felt him drawing nearer. “i ought to tell you about my hands before we know each other better. they have names. the right one is miss self-reliance, and the left miss independence. they’re both of them very ambitious and—” she swung round, lowering her eyes—“and they don’t like being held.” he glanced at the photo on the piano. “did no one ever hold them?”

“hardly any one, truth and honest” she finished the last button and winked at him solemnly. “here have i been ready since eleven, sending you cables and whole gardens of flowers.” she burst out laughing: “i’m glad you don’t drizzle. come on, i’m hungry for the sun.”

as they shot down in the elevator he asked her: “drizzle! that’s a new word. what do you mean by it?”

“you’ll know soon enough.” she nodded. “sooner or later all men do it. tom drizzles most awfully. he drizzled last night, when i didn’t want him to come up because i thought you’d be in the apartment.”

“then you did think that? you hadn’t forgotten that it was the day i landed?”

“forgotten after you’d cabled me! you must think me callous.”

she gave her shoulders a haughty shrug and ran down the steps into the sunlight. he followed, inwardly laughing. already she had taught him one way of stealing a march on the rest of her suitors. all the other men grew gloomy—“drizzled,” as she called it—when they fancied that she had hurt their feelings. he decided, then and there, that under no provocation whatsoever would he drizzle. she might do what she liked to him, he would always meet her smiling. amor omnia vincit should be the legend written on his banner.

“what shall we do?” she clasped her hands against her throat in a gesture of ecstasy.

“anything you like.”

“anything! really anything? even something quite expensive?”

“hang the expense.”

“then come on.”

he had no idea where she was taking him, and he didn’t care. all places were alike, so long as he was alone with her. they walked shoulder to shoulder, their arms just touching. sometimes in crossing a road they drew apart and then, as if to apologize for their brief aloofness, came together with a little bump on the farther pavement. they were embarrassed, and glad to be embarrassed. when their silences had lasted too long, they stole furtive glances at each other; when their eyes met, they smiled archly.

they had passed through the tunnels where the dogs take their morning walks, and had come out on to broadway. suddenly she stopped and regarded him with an expression of unutterable calamity.

“i’ve got to go back.”

“no, don’t—please.”

“i must.”

he scented tragedy—a previous engagement, perhaps. “but why—why, when we’ve only just met?”

“i’ve forgotten your lilies. i was going to wear them as—as an apology.”

he laughed his relief. “pooh! there are heaps more.”

“but it isn’t that. i wouldn’t accept any more. it’s the dear old ones that i want—the ones you sent me almost the minute you landed.”

he glanced round sharply; a few doors off he saw a florist’s. “don’t go back,” he pleaded. and then, with a frankness which he feared might offend her: “if you did go back, we might meet other people. i want you all to myself to-day; i can’t spare a second of you to other persons. promise to stop here for me.”

“but i—perhaps i don’t want to lose a second of you to other persons.” she rested her hand on his arm lightly. “where are you going?”

“be back before you can say jack robinson.”

he darted off. as he entered the shop, he caught her slow smile of intelligence forbidding him.

while the flowers were being arranged, he kept his eyes turned to where she hovered on the pavement; the anxiety that she might escape him was not quite gone. he saw her hail a taxi. for a moment he thought—— but, no, she was having an earnest conversation.

“it’s all arranged, brother. we’re going to drive down

“don’t tell me.” he banged the door and settled himself beside her. “life’s much more surprising when you don’t know where you’re going.” he laid the flowers in her lap. “for you. you won’t refuse them?”

she bent over them curiously, as though she hadn’t the least idea what he had been purchasing. as she stripped the paper from them and the white cup of the blossoms began to appear, she frowned severely.

“lilies of the valley! you’re too good. you spoil me. and now you’ll think that i was asking for them. no. i won’t wear them.”

having registered her protest, she at once rewarded him with her fluttering delight as she turned back her coatee and tried several effects before finally deciding where to fasten them.

while he had walked at her side, he had been too embarrassed to take much notice of how she was dressed.

now that her attention was occupied, he grew bold to examine her toilet.

her beauty was a subtle, intoxicating perfume, like incense suggesting the spirit of worship. she was different from his mother—different even from vashti, and from any woman that he had known. her difference might not be the result of virtues—might even be due to omitted qualities. he did not stop to analyze; to him the very newness of her type was a fascination.

nothing that she wore was useful. it was perishable as a spring garden. a shower of rain, and it would be eternally ruined. none of it could be employed as second-best when its first freshness was gone. it couldn’t even be given to the poor: her attire was too modish—it bespoke luxury and marked the wearer’s class in society. her clothes were the whim of the moment—utterly uneconomic. if mrs. sheerug had had to pass judgment on them, she would have said that they weren’t sensible.

in the exact sense they weren’t even clothing; they were adornments, planned with a view to exposing quite as much as to concealing the person. to enhance the effect of beauty was their sole purpose.

the skirt was a creamy shade of muslin, with small green and blue flowers dotted over it. it was thin and blowy, and so modeled as to pronounce rather than to hide the lines of the figure. a pair of pretty feet peeped from under; the kind of feet that demand a carriage and are not meant for walking. they were clad in gossamer silk-stockings; the shoes seemed to have been designed for dancing and were absurdly high in the heel. both shoes and stockings exactly matched the creamy tint of the muslin. teddy thought with joy that any one who wore them would be in constant need of a man’s protection. there would be many puddles in life over which, with such shoes, she would require to be carried.

the coatee was of apple-green satin, turned back from the neck and belted in at the waist, revealing a gauzy blouse cut into a low v-shape, so as to display the gentle breathing of the throat and breast.

his eyes stole up to her face. it was shadowed by a broad hat of limp straw, trimmed with dog-roses and trailing cherry-colored ribbon. on her fresh young cheeks was the faintest dust of powder, giving to them a false bloom and smoothness. he wondered why she did that, when her unaided complexion would have been so much more attractive. below her left eye was a beauty-patch. behind her left ear hung a tremulous curl, which added a touch of demure quaintness. in appearance she was like to one of lely’s portraits of the beauties of the cavalier period—to a nell gwynn, whose very aspect of innocence made her latent naughtiness the more provocative.

though he was exceptionally ignorant of the feminine arts and familiar only with domestic types of women, teddy thought that he now understood why she had taken two hours to dress. for his sake she had made herself a work of art. it was as though she had told him, “i want you to like me better than any girl in the world, teddy”—only, for some unexplained reason, she had avoided calling him teddy as yet.

he sat watching her as she pinned the lilies against her breast how pretty her hair was, with its reddish tinge like specks of gold shining through its blackness! and her ears—they were like pale petals enmeshed within her tresses.

he couldn’t blame her if other men had loved her first; but he wished they hadn’t. the knowledge had come as a shock.

“been inspecting me for quite some time! do i meet with monsieur’s approval?” she leant her head at a perky angle and glanced up at him.

“approval! my mind was made up before i started. i didn’t come to america to——”

“no, i know.” she cut him short. “mother told me: you’re a gree-at success. you came on business.—please don’t interrupt; i’ve something most important to tell you. i do want you to approve of me to-day— to-day most especially. that’s why i didn’t get up till eleven.” she saw the smile creeping round the edges of his mouth. “i didn’t mean that the way you thought. you’re looking sarcastic and—and i hate sarcastic persons. i stayed in bed to get rested that i might look my prettiest, because——- presently i’ll tell you. i’ve done something terrible; no, i won’t tell you now—later. but promise you’ll forgive me.”

“forgive you!” his voice trembled. had he dared, he would have slipped his arm about her; but she had huddled herself closer into her corner. “i’ll forgive you anything, if you’ll do one thing to please me.”

he waited for her to ask him what it was; but her strategic faculty for silence again asserted itself. she sat, not looking at him, with her eyes shaded.

it was a childish longing that prompted him to make his request. “i want to see your hands,” he whispered. “they’re so beautiful. it’s a shame to keep them covered. on my word of honor,” he sank his voice, “i won’t—won’t take advantage.”

she considered poutingly whether she would grant the favor.

“the first i’ve ever asked,” he urged.

the smile came like sunshine flashing through cloud. “that kind is rarely the last.”

she pulled off the glove from her right-hand, miss self-reliance, because it was furthest from him.

“when i was very little,” she said, “i used to ask you whether i was pretty. you used to drizzle in those days; all you’d tell me was, ’you have beautiful hands.’ then bones and i would steal away and cry in the currant-bushes. d’you remember?”

“i must have been a grudging little beast.”

“no, you were a nice boy when you weren’t quite horrid. but if i were to ask you now, ’do you think i’m pretty?’ please don’t answer. i’m not asking. but because of all that—the times we used to have—let’s be good playfellows while it lasts. we won’t say silly things or do silly things. let’s be tremendously sensible. there! that’s a bargain.”

it wasn’t. if being in love wasn’t sensible, the last thing he wanted was to be sensible. he hadn’t come to america to be sensible in her meaning of the word. but the swiftness with which she took his consent for granted left no room for argument. she might mistake his arguing for drizzling—the fault which she held the most in contempt. so he kept both his tongue and his hands quiet, doing his best to forget all the ardent scenes which his imagination had conjured.

the lonely distance in the taxi between his corner and hers seemed to have widened. they passed over a long cat’s-cradle of girders, spanning the east river. she didn’t speak. she sat with her ungloved hand before her eyes and her face averted. any stranger who had glanced in on them at that moment would have said they had quarreled. it felt very much like it to teddy.