uiry somehow startled him. In truth, he could find no
satisfactory answer. A remark relative to his play--Clarke's play--rose
to the threshold of his lips, but he almost bit his tongue as soon as he
realised that the strange delusion which had possessed him that night
still dominated the undercurrents of his cerebration. No, he had
accomplished but little during the last few months--at least, by way of
creative literature. So he replied that he had made money. "That is
something," he said. "Besides, who can turn out a masterpiece every
week? An artist's brain is not a machine, and in the respite from
creative work I have gathered strength for the future. But," he added,
slightly annoyed, "you are not listening."

His exclamation brought her back from the train of thoughts that his
words had suggested. For in his reasoning she had recognised the same
arguments that she had hourly repeated to herself in defence of her
inactivity when she was living under the baneful influence of Reginald
Clarke. Yes, baneful; for the first time she dared to confess it to
herself. In a flash the truth dawned upon her that it was not her love
alone, but something else, something irresistable and very mysterious,
that had dried up the well of creation in her. Could it be that the same
power was now exerting its influence upon the struggling soul of this
talented boy? Rack her brains as she might, she could not definitely
formulate her apprehensions and a troubled look came into her eyes.

"Ethel," the boy repeated, impatiently, "why are you not listening? Do
you realise that I must leave you in half an hour?"

She looked at him with deep tenderness. Something like a tear lent a
soft radiance to her large child-like eyes.

Ernest saw it and was profoundly moved. In that moment he loved her
passionately.

"Foolish boy," she said softly; then, lowering her voice to a whisper:
"You may kiss me before you go."

His lips gently touched hers, but she took his head between her hands
and pressed her mouth upon his in a long kiss.

Ernest drew back a little awkwardly. He had not been kissed like this
before.

"Poet though you are," Ethel whispered, "you have not yet learned to
kiss."

She was deeply agitated when she noticed that his hand was fumbling for
the watch in his vest-pocket. She suddenly released him, and said, a
little hurt: "No, you must not miss your train. Go by all means."

Vainly Ernest remonstrated with her.

"Go to him,