rapture.

He developed a feeling of the impermanence of life, his hold upon it no
stronger than the tenuous cord of a balloon straining impatiently in
great, unknown currents. The future lost all significance, reality;
there were only memories; the vista behind was long and clear, but the
door to to-morrow was shut. Looking into his mirror the reflection was
far removed; it was hollow-cheeked and silvered, unfamiliar. He half
expected to see a different face, not less lean, but more arrogant, with
a sharply defined chin. The actual, blurred visage accorded ill with his
trains of thought; it was out of place among the troops of gala youth.

A wired letter, a customary present of cigarettes, came from Mariana on
Christmas, gifts from Charlotte and Bundy Provost. There was champagne
at his place for dinner; and he sealed crisp money in envelopes
inscribed Rudolph, Honduras, and the names of the cook and maid. He
drank the wine solemnly; the visions were gone; and he saw himself as an
old man lingering out of his time, alone. There was, however, little
sentimental melancholy in the realization; he held an upright pride, the
inextinguishable accent of a black Penny. His disdain for the
commonality of life still dictated his prejudices. He informed Rudolph
again that the present opera was without song; and again Rudolph gravely
echoed the faith that melody was the heart of music.

The winds grew even higher, shriller; the falls of snow vanished before
drenching, brown rains, and the afternoons perceptibly lengthened. There
was arbutus on the slopes, robins, before he recognized that April was
accomplished. A farmer ploughed the vegetable garden behind the house;
and Honduras dragged the cedar bean poles from their resting place.
Mariana soon appeared.

"I wouldn't miss the spring at Shadrach for a hundred years of
hibiscus," she told him. He gathered that she had been south. She
brought him great pleasure, beat him with annoying frequency at sniff,
and was more companionable than ever before. She had, he thought, forgot
James Polder; and he was careful to avoid the least reference to the
latter. Mariana was a sensible girl; birth once more had told.

She was better looking than he had remembered her, more tranquil; a
distinguished woman. It was incredible that a man approximately her
equal had not appeared. Then, without warning--they were seated on the
porch gazing through the tender green foliage of the willow at the