twice. Imbecile! He opened the book--

"Oh, no; it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken.
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown altho' its height be taken."

"Point of five! Three queens--three knaves! Do you know that thing of
Dowson's: 'I have been faithful to thee, Cynara, in my fashion'? Better
than any Verlaine, except 'Les sanglots longs.' What have you got?"

"Only quart to the queen. Do you like the name 'Cynara'?"

"Yes; don't you?"

"Cynara! Cynara! Ye-es--an autumn, rose-petal, whirling, dead-leaf
sound."

"Good! Pipped. Shut up, Ossy--don't snore!"

"Ah, poor old dog! Let him. Shuffle for me, please. Oh! there goes
another card!" Her knee was touching his--! . . .

The book had dropped--Summerhay started.

Dash it! Hopeless! And, turning round in that huge armchair, he snoozed
down into its depths. In a few minutes, he was asleep. He slept without
a dream.

It was two hours later when the same friend, seeking distraction, came on
him, and stood grinning down at that curly head and face which just then
had the sleepy abandonment of a small boy's. Maliciously he gave the
chair a little kick.

Summerhay stirred, and thought: 'What! Where am I?'

In front of the grinning face, above him, floated another, filmy,
charming. He shook himself, and sat up. "Oh, damn you!"

"Sorry, old chap!"

"What time is it?"

"Ten o'clock."

Summerhay uttered an unintelligible sound, and, turning over on the other
arm, pretended to snooze down again. But he slept no more. Instead, he
saw her face, heard her voice, and felt again the touch of her warm,
gloved hand.

III

At the opera, that Friday evening, they were playing "Cavalleria" and
"Pagliacci"--works of which Gyp tolerated the first and loved the second,
while Winton found them, with "Faust" and "Carmen," about the only operas
he could not sleep through.

Women's eyes, which must not stare, cover more space than the eyes of
men, which must not stare, but do; women's eyes have less method, too,
seeing all things at once, instead of one thing at a time. Gyp had seen
Summerhay long before he saw her; seen him come in and fold his opera hat
against his white waistcoat, looking round, as if for--someone. Her eyes
criticized him in this new garb--his broad head, and its crisp, dark,
shining hair, his air of sturdy, lazy, lovable audacity. He looked w