Dearborn--indeed, he could not have stood a
companion. He called a cab and told the man to drive him up to the Bois
de Boulogne, and they rolled slowly up the Avenue down which he had just
come. But in what position did he stand toward Mary Faversham? She had
refused Cedersholm because she loved him and he loved her--more than he
ever could love, more than he ever had loved. A cab passed him in which
two forms were enlaced. The figures of two lovers blotted in the
darkness. Along the alleys, under the winter trees, every now and then
he saw other lovers walking arm-in-arm, even in winter warmed by the
eternal fire. He touched his pocket where her note lay and his emotions
stirred afresh.

He dreamed of her.

He had been tortured day by day, these weeks, by jealousy of Cedersholm,
and this helped him on in his sentimental progress. They passed the
street, which a moment before he had taken from her house, to come out
upon the Champs Elysees. They rolled into the Bois, under the damp
darkness and the night, and the forest odours came to him through the
window of the cab. She would have to wait until he was rich and famous.
As far as her fortune was concerned, if she loved him she could give it
to the poor. He could tell her how to use it. She should never spend a
cent of it on herself. He must be able to suffice for her and for him.
Rich or poor, the woman who married him would have to take him as he
was. On the lake the mists blew over the water. They lay white as
spirits among the trees. Everything about the dark and silent night was
beautiful to him, made beautiful by the sacred warfare in his own mind.
Above all came the human eagerness to see her again, to touch her again,
to tell his love, to hear her say what Dearborn's coming had prevented.
And he would see her to-morrow morning. It was profanity to walk in
these woods without her.

"Go back," he called to the coachman, "go back quietly to the Quais."

He hoped that he should be able to sleep and that the next day would
come quickly. He became ardent and devoted as he dreamed, and all the
way back his heart ached for her.

When he entered the studio and called Dearborn he received no response.
There was a note from the playwright on the table--he would not be
back until the next morning.

Fairfax, his hand under his pillow, crushed her letter, and the words:
"I am yours, Mary," flushed his palm and his cheek.

* * * * *

H