st of; he could not live in the
present; life was to him for ever a thing postponed. "I will live--I
will enjoy--some day!" As likely as not that day would never dawn.

Was it true, as admonishing reason sometimes whispered, that happiness
cometh not by observation, that the only true content is in the moments
which we pass without self-consciousness? Is all attainment followed by
disillusion? A man aware of his health is on the verge of malady. Were
he to possess his desire, to exclaim, "I am happy," would the Fates
chastise his presumption?

That way lay asceticism, which his soul abhorred. On, rather, following
the great illusion, if this it were! "The crown of life"--philosophise
as he might, that word had still its meaning, still its inspiration.
Let the present pass untasted; he preferred his dream of a day to come.

Next morning, very unexpectedly, he received a note from Mrs. Borisoff
inviting him to dine with her a few days hence. About her company she
said nothing, and Piers went, uncertain whether it was a dinner
_tete-a-tete_ or with other guests. When he entered the room, the first
face he beheld was Irene's.

It was a very small party, and the hostess wore her gayest countenance.
A delightful evening, from the social point of view; for Piers Otway a
time of self-forgetfulness in the pleasures of sight and hearing. He
could have little private talk with Irene; she did not talk much with
anyone; but he saw her, he heard her voice, he lived in the glory of
her presence. Moreover, she consented to play. Of her skill as a
pianist, Otway could not judge; what he heard was Music, music
absolute, the very music of the spheres. When it ceased, Mrs. Borisoff
chanced to look at him; he was startlingly pale, his eyes wide as if in
vision more than mortal.

"I leave town to-morrow," said his hostess, as he took leave. "Some
friends are going with me. You shall hear how we get on at the Castle."

Perhaps her look was meant to supplement this bare news. It seemed to
offer reassurance. Did she understand his look of entreaty in reply?

Music breathed about him in the lonely hours. It exalted his passion,
lulled the pains of desire, held the flesh subservient to spirit. What
is love, says the physiologist, but ravening sex? If so, in Piers
Otway's breast the primal instinct had undergone strange
transformation. How wrought?--he asked himself. To what destiny did it
correspond, this winged love soaring into the infin