s at night. The main thing is
to sail on and on and on."

She caught a little of his recklessness--suffered him to hurry her to
and fro through the inky air till she was panting for breath and
tired. Then they groped to the rail and peered vainly down at the
brook, which, like an unbroken child, was heard and not seen. They
leaned their elbows on the rail and stared into the muffling gloom.

"I think I'll have another of your cigarettes," he said.

"So will I," said she.

There was a cozy fireside moment as they took their lights from the
same match. When he threw the match overboard he said:

"Like a human life, eh? A little spark between dark and dark."

He was surprised at stumbling into rhyme, and apologized. But she
said:

"Do you know, I rather like that. It reminds me of a poem about a
rain-storm--Russell Lowell's, I fancy; it told of a flock of sheep
scampering down a dusty road and clattering across a bridge and back
to the dust again. He said it was like human life, 'a little noise
between two silences.'"

"H'm!" was the best Davidge could do. But the agony of the brevity of
existence seized them both by the hearts, and their hearts throbbed
and bled like birds crushed in the claws of hawks. Their hearts had
such capabilities of joy, such songs in them, such love and longing,
such delight in beauty--and beauty was so beautiful, so frequent, so
thrilling! Yet they could spend but a glance, a sigh, a regret, a
gratitude, and then their eyes were out, their ears still, their lips
cold, their hearts dust. The ache of it was beyond bearing.

"Let's walk. I'm cold again," she whispered.

He felt that she needed the sense of hurry, and he went so fast that
she had to run to keep up with him. There seemed to be some comfort in
the privilege of motion for its own sake; motion was life; motion was
godhood; motion was escape from the run-down clock of death.

Back and forth they kept their promenade, till her body refused to
answer the whips of restlessness. Her brain began to shut up shop. It
would do no more thinking this night.

She stumbled toward the taxicab. Davidge lifted her in, and she sank
down, completely done. She fell asleep.

Davidge took his place in the cab and wondered lazily at the quaint
adventure. He was only slightly concerned with wondering at the cause
of her uneasiness. He was used to minding his own business.

She slept so well that when the groping search-light of a coming
auto