beneath his feet. She respected
him so highly; she believed in him so entirely. The thought of her
discovering the truth, or any part of it, gave him a sensation of
nausea. He was watching her out of the corner of his eye. Never had he
seen her more statelily beautiful. If he should lose her! "I'm
mad--_mad_!" he said to himself.

"Josephine is as high above her as heaven above earth. What is there to
her, anyhow? Not brains--nor taste--nor such miraculous beauty. Why do
I make an ass of myself about her? I ought to go to my doctor."

"I don't believe you're listening to what I'm saying," laughed
Josephine.

"My head's in a terrible state," replied he. "I can't think of
anything."

"Don't try to talk or to listen, dearest," said she in the sweet and
soothing tone that is neither sweet nor soothing to a man in a certain
species of unresponsive mood. "This air will do you good. It doesn't
annoy you for me to talk to you, does it?"

The question was one of those which confidently expects, even demands, a
sincere and strenuous negative for answer. It fretted him, this
matter-of-course assumption of hers that she could not but be altogether
pleasing, not to say enchanting to him. Her position, her wealth, the
attentions she had received, the flatteries--In her circumstances could
it be in human nature not to think extremely well of oneself? And he
admitted that she had the right so to think. Still--For the first time
she scraped upon his nerves. His reply, "Annoy me? The contrary," was
distinctly crisp. To an experienced ear there would have sounded the
faint warning under-note of sullenness.

But she, believing in his love and in herself, saw nothing, suspected
nothing. "We know each other so thoroughly," she went on, "that we don't
need to make any effort. How congenial we are! I always understand you.
I feel such a sense of the perfect freedom and perfect frankness between
us. Don't you?"

"You have wonderful intuitions," said he.

It was the time to alarm him by coldness, by capriciousness. But how
could she know it? And she was in love--really in love--not with
herself, not with love, but with him. Thus, she made the mistake of all
true lovers in those difficult moments. She let him see how absolutely
she was his. Nor did the spectacle of her sincerity, of her belief in
his sincerity put him in any better humor with himself.

The walk was a mere matter of a dozen blocks. He thought it would never
end. "You a