hould think you'd long for it again."

"Not yet," said Sophy.

His face lighted.

"'Not yet'? Then you do feel sometimes that this buried-alive-life won't
satisfy you forever?"

"Oh, no! I shall fly far and wide again some day."

Loring was silent. His heart gave a hot twist. This was just what he
most feared, that she would "fly far and wide" away from him. He had
never in all his exceedingly wilful life desired anything with the
frantic vehemence that he desired Sophy. And he was not accustomed to
having his desires denied him. At home the household word was: "Morry
has such a strong will." This had been the slogan of his childhood: "My
will--or nothing. My will--or a burst blood-vessel. Death or punishment
in any form--rather than yield my will." He had been rather delicate as
a child. So his parents had preferred concession to the convulsions with
which he threatened them whenever he was crossed in any way. It was a
wonder that he grew up to likable manhood. Yet people thought him
"perfectly charming"--a bit spoiled, but delightful. Girls called him
"fascinating." His own pals said: "Morry Loring's a good sort. A bit
ugly if you cross him--you've got to know how to handle him; but he's
all right." By "handling" Loring they meant that one must seem to give
him his way while skilfully getting one's own. This was not always
practicable. Then coolnesses sprang up. Only two out of the old Harvard
set stuck to him. But he was, in fact, not at all a bad sort--provided
that you were willing not to announce too positively and publicly that
your soul was your own. And his will was certainly strong. It was a
brand-new sensation for him to will so ardently the possession of a
thing which he was in sick doubt of securing. It had a poignant yet
terrible charm of sheer novelty. And at the same time he experienced an
inner revelation which shook him even more. It was the undreamed of
capacity for adoration. There was no denying it--his spirit was on its
knees to Sophy. She seemed to him as beautifully overwhelming as the
suddenly revealed goddess to the shepherd of Mount Ida. There was about
her, in addition to the aura of beauty and talent, the glamour of a
woman who has moved brilliantly in a brilliant world. Had he been told
that this naif snobbishness had much to do with his novel emotion of
adoration, he would have received the information with a tempest of
incredulous and outraged wrath. Yet, though undoubtedly due to it