sible use we can have for poetry. Our age is so
distinctively material and epicurean."

Then Adriana asserted that it was precisely in such conditions poetry
became an absolute necessity. Poetry only could refine views that
would become gross without it; and give a tinge of romance to manners
ready to become heartless and artificial. The discussion was kept up
with much spirit and cleverness, though diverging continually to all
kinds of "asides," and Mrs. Filmer, with half-closed eyes, watched and
listened, and occupied her mind with far different speculations.

Then there was some music; Rose played in her faultlessly brilliant
manner; and Harry sang _The Standard Bearer_, and Adriana sang a
couple of ballads. And by this time the moon had risen, and Harry
brought woolen wraps, and the two girls walked with him, while he
smoked more than one cigar. At first, the promenade was to a quickstep
of chatter and laughter; but as the glorious moonshine turned earth
into heaven, their steps became slower, their laughter died away,
feeling grew apace, speech did not seem necessary, and a divine
silence that felt even motion to be a wrong was just beginning to
enthrall each young, impressible heart.

At that moment Mrs. Filmer broke the dangerous charm by an imperative
assertion that "it was high time the house was locked up for the
night. She had been asleep and forgotten herself," she said, and there
was a tone of hurry and worry in her voice. So emotion, and romance,
and young love's dreaming were locked out in the moonshine; and there
was a commonplace saying of "good-nights." At their bedroom doors,
Rose and Adriana kissed each other, and Rose said:

"I have been thinking of poor Dick Duval. Poor Dick! He loves me so
much!"

"Then love him in return, Rose."

"Impossible! He is poor."

With a sad smile, and a deep sigh, Rose shut her door. It was
characteristic of her, that she had not thought of Adriana and Harry.
But Harry could not sleep for thought--for a sweet, pervading,
drifting thought, that had no definite character, and would indeed
have been less sweet if it had been more definite. He could only tell
himself that he had found a new kind of woman; that her beauty filled
his heart; and that her voice--whether she spoke or sang--set him
vibrating from head to feet.

As for Adriana she was serious, almost sorrowful, and she wondered at
the mood, finding it nevertheless quite beyond her control. Had she
been