promenade.

"Ah--a bench!" he says brightly, and then, because that sounded so
completely imbecile, plunges on.

"Don't you want to sit down a minute, Elinor?--I--you--it's so cool--so
warm, I mean--" He closes his mouth firmly--what a _ghastly_ way to
begin!

But Elinor says "Yes" politely and they try to adapt themselves to the
backless ornamental bench, Ted nervously crossing and recrossing his
legs until he happens to think that Elinor certainly never would marry
anybody with St. Vitus' Dance.

"Can't tell you how nice it's been this time, Elinor. And you've been--"
There, things are going better--at least, he has recovered his voice.

"Why, you know how much we love to have you, Ted," says Elinor and Ted
feels himself turn hot and cold as he was certain you never really did
except in diseases. But then she adds, "You and Ollie and Bob Templar,
and, oh, all Peter's friends."

He looks at her steadily for a long moment--the blue silks of her
costume suit her completely. She is there, black hair and clear eyes,
small hands and mouth pure as the body of a dream and elvish with
thoughts like a pansy--all the body of her, all that people call her.
And she is so delicately removed from him--so clean in all things where
he is not--that he knows savagely within him that there can be no real
justice in a world where he can even touch her lightly, and yet he must
touch her because if he does not he will die. All the things he meant to
say shake from him like scraps of confetti, he does not worry any more
about money or seeming ridiculous or being worthy, all he knows at all
in the world is his absolute need of her, a need complete as a child's
and so choosing any words that come.

"Listen--do you like me?" says the particolored harlequin and all the
sharp leaves of the hedge begin to titter as wind runs over them at one
of the oldest and least sensible questions in the world.

The young Chinese lady turns toward the harlequin. There is some
laughter in her voice and a great deal of surprise.

"Why, Ted, of course--why, why shouldn't I?--You're Peter's friend
and--"

"Oh, I don't mean _that_!" The harlequin's hands twist at each other
till the knuckles hurt, but he seems to have recovered most voluble if
chaotic powers of speech.

"That was silly, asking that--but it's hard--when you care for anybody
so much you can't _see_--when you love them till they're the only
thing there _is_ you care about--and you know yo