"

"Come over by the window and sit down in the light," he requested.

With a start she glanced nervously at his eyes. They were closed. She
took a chair in the sun, and he sat down opposite her.

For a moment they sat so, in silence. With her chin in her hand, she
stared out across the blue waters of the Mediterranean, across the quay
where Monte used to walk. It looked so desolate out there without him!
How many hours since he left she had watched people pass back and forth
along the broad path, as if hoping against hope that by some chance he
might suddenly appear among them. But he never did, and she knew that
she might sit here watching year after year and he would not come.

By this time he was probably in England--probably, on such a day as this,
out upon the links. She smiled a little. "Damn golf!" he had said.

She thought for a moment that she heard his voice repeating it. It was
only Peter's voice.

"You have grown even more beautiful than I thought," Peter was saying.

She sprang to her feet. He was looking at he--shading his opened eyes
with one hand.

"Peter!" she cried, falling back a step.

[Illustration: "Peter!" she cried, falling back a step.]

"More beautiful," he repeated. "But your eyes are sadder."

"Peter," she said again, "your eyes are open!"

"Yes," he said. "It became necessary for me to see--so they opened."

Before them, she felt ashamed--almost like one naked. She began to
tremble. Then, with her cheeks scarlet, she covered her face with her
hands.

Peter rose and helped her back to a chair as if she, in her turn, had
suddenly become blind.

"If I frighten you like this I--I must not look at you," he faltered.

Still she trembled; still she covered her face.

"See!" he cried. "I have closed them again."

She looked up in amazement. He was standing with his eyes tight shut.
He who had been in darkness all these long months had dared, to save her
from her own shame, to return again to the pit. For a second it stopped
her heart from beating. Then, springing to his side, she seized his
hands.

"Peter," she commanded, "open your eyes!"

He was pale--ghastly pale.

"Not if it hurts you."

Swiftly leaning toward him, she kissed the closed lids.

"Will you open them--now?"

She was in terror lest he should find it impossible again--as if that had
been some temporary miracle which, having been scorned, would not be
repeated.

Then once again she saw