To Michael the two words were like melodies which he had lately learned
to play. Indeed, they seemed to him his own melodies never played
before, and he was eager for Lily to pronounce judgment.

"Why do you ask questions?" she wondered.

"Say 'dearest' to me," Michael begged.

"No, no," she blushed against his heart.

"But say which you like best," he urged. "Darling or dearest?"

"Well, darling," she pouted.

"You've said it," cried Michael rapturously. "Now you can say it of your
own accord. Oh, Lily, say it when you kiss me."

"But supposing I never kiss you ever again?" asked Lily, pulling away
from his arms. "And besides we must go back."

"Well, we needn't hurry."

"Not if you come at once," she agreed.

One more kiss, one more gliding dreaming walk, one more pause to bid the
river farewell from the towering bridge, one more wrestle with the
waterproof-rug, one more slow lingering and then suddenly swift escaping
finger, one more wave of the muff, one last aerial salutation, and she
was gone till Wednesday.

Michael was left alone between the tall thin houses of Kensington, but
beneath his feet he seemed to feel the world swing round through space;
and all the tall thin houses, all the fluted lamp-posts, all the
clustering chimney-pots reeled about him in the ecstasy of his aroused
existence.

Chapter XVII: Lily

When Michael came into the dining-room after he had left Lily, his
mother said: "Dearest boy, what have you been doing? Your eyes are
shining like stars."

Here was the opportunity to tell her about Lily, but Michael could not
avail himself of it. These last two days seemed as yet too incomplete
for revelation. Somehow he felt that he was creating a work of art, and
that to tell his mother of conception or progress would be to spoil the
perfection of his impulse. There was only one person on earth to whom he
could confide this cataclysmic experience, and that was Alan. He and
Alan had dreamed enough together in the past to make him unashamed to
announce at last his foothold on reality. But supposing Alan were to
laugh, as he had laughed over the absurdity of Kathleen? Such a
reception of his news would ruin their friendship; and yet if their
friendship could not endure the tale of true love, was it not already
ruined? He must tell Alan, at whatever cost. And where should he tell
him? Such a secret must not be lightly entrusted. Time and place must
come harmoniously, befalling