have their promise to form a committee for the children
of Austria."

"Well, that's that. We'll marry two months from today. I can finish
my play in that time, and I won't wait a day longer."

"Very well. . . . I met Marian Lawrence the other day. I'm told you
were expected to marry her at one time. She is very beautiful and has
more subtlety than most American women. Why didn't you?"

"Because she wasn't you, I suppose. Did she stick a little bejewelled
gold pin into you?"

"Only with her eyes. She made me feel quite the age I had left behind
me in Vienna." And then she asked irresistibly, "Do you think you
would have fallen in love with me, after a much longer and better
opportunity to know me, if you--if we had met in Vienna before that
time?"

"No, I should not. What a question! I should have loved you in one
way as I do now--with that part of me that worships you. But men are
men, and never will be demi-gods."

This time she did laugh, and until tears were in her eyes. "Oh, Lee!
No wonder I fell in love with you. Any other man--well, I couldn't
have loved you. My soul was too old." And then her eyes widened as
she stared before her. "Perhaps----"

He sprang to his feet and pulled her up from her chair. "None of that.
None of that. And now I do want to kiss you."

And as Mary Zattiany never did anything by halves she was completely
happy, and completely young.

XXXVI

He left her at ten o'clock, and the next morning rose at seven and went
to work at once on his play. He chose the one that had the greatest
emotional possibilities. Gora Dwight had told him that he must learn
to "externalize his emotions," and he felt that here was the supreme
opportunity. Never would he have more turgid, pent-up, tearing
emotions to get rid of than now. He wrote until one o'clock, then,
after lunch and two hours on his column, went out and took a long walk;
but lighter of heart than since he had met Mary Zattiany. He also
reflected with no little satisfaction that when writing on the play he
had barely thought of her. All the fire in him had flown to his head
and transported him to another plane; he wondered if any woman, save in
brief moments, could rival the ecstasy of mental creation. That rotten
spot in the brain, dislocation of particles, whatever it was that
enabled a few men to do what the countless millions never dreamed of
attempting, or attempt only to fail, was, through its very