long before we get to Versailles."

This time she was on her guard--and besides they were walking--and he
was no longer caressing the edge of her dress with his wild flower; it
was almost easy to fence now.

But when they reached the automobile and he bent over to tuck the rug
in--and she felt the touch of his hands and perceived the scent of
him--the subtle scent, not a perfume hardly, of his coat, or his hair, a
wild rush of that passionate disturbance came over her again, making her
heart beat and her eyes dilate.

And Hector saw and understood, and bit his lips, and clinched his hands
together under the rug, because so great was his own emotion that he
feared what he should say or do. He dared not, dared not chance a
dismissal from the joy of her presence forever, after this one day.

"I will wait until I know she loves me enough to certainly forgive
me--and then, and then--" he said to himself.

But Fate, who was looking on, laughed while she chanted, "The hour is
now at hand when these steeds of passion whose reins you have left loose
so long will not ask your leave, noble friend, but will carry you
whither they will."

XI

They were both a little constrained upon the journey back to
Versailles--and both felt it. But when they turned into the Porte St.
Antoine Theodora woke up.

"Do you know," she said, "something tells me that for a long, long time
I shall not again have such a happy day. It can't be more than half-past
five or six--need we go back to the Reservoirs yet? Could we not have
tea at the little cafe by the lake?"

He gave the order to his chauffeur, and then he turned to her.

"I, too, want to prolong it all," he said, "and I want to make you
happy--always."

"It is only lately that I have begun to think about things," she said,
softly--"about happiness, I mean, and its possibilities and
impossibilities. I think before my marriage I must have been half
asleep, and very young."

And Hector thought, "You are still, but I shall awake you."

"You see," she continued, "I had never read any novels, or books about
life until _Jean d'Agreve_. And now I wonder sometimes if it is possible
to be really happy--really, really happy?"

"I know it is," he said; "but only in one way."

She did not dare to ask in what way. She looked down and clasped her
hands.

"I once thought," she went on, hurriedly, "that I was perfectly happy
the first time Josiah gave me two thousand francs, and tol