chly.

"Oh, just to hear a natural laugh," he said a little plaintively. "Just
to hear a real joyous laugh. Can you laugh joyously?"

She giggled again at this, and he was about to tell her how joyously she
did laugh when Angela called him away to hear Florence Reel, who was
going to sing again for his especial benefit. He parted from Miss Dale
reluctantly, for she seemed some delicious figure as delicately colorful
as Royal Dresden, as perfect in her moods as a spring evening, as soft,
soulful, enticing as a strain of music heard through the night at a
distance or over the water. He went over to where Florence Reel was
standing, listening in a sympathetic melancholy vein to a delightful
rendering of "The Summer Winds Are Blowing, Blowing." All the while he
could not help thinking of Suzanne--letting his eyes stray in that
direction. He talked to Mrs. Dale, to Henrietta Tenmon, to Luke Severas,
Mr. and Mrs. Dula, Payalei Stone, now a writer of special articles, and
others, but he couldn't help longing to go back to her. How sweet she
was! How very delightful! If he could only, once more in his life, have
the love of a girl like that!

The guests began to depart. Angela and Eugene bustled about the
farewells. Because of the duties of her daughter, which continued to the
end, Mrs. Dale stayed, talking to Arthur Skalger. Eugene was in and out
between the studio and cloak room off the entry way. Now and then he
caught glimpses of Suzanne demurely standing by her tea cups and
samovar. For years he had seen nothing so fresh and young as her body.
She was like a new grown wet white lily pod in the dawn of the year. She
seemed to have the texture of the water chestnut and the lush, fat
vegetables of the spring. Her eyes were as clear as water; her skin as
radiant new ivory. There was no sign of weariness about her, nor any
care, nor any thought of evil, nor anything except health and happiness.
"Such a face!" he thought casually in passing. "She is as sweet as any
girl could be. As radiant as light itself."

Incidentally the personality of Frieda Roth came back, and--long before
her--Stella Appleton.

"Youth! Youth! What in this world could be finer--more acceptable! Where
would you find its equal? After all the dust of the streets and the
spectacle of age and weariness--the crow's feet about people's eyes, the
wrinkles in their necks, the make-believe of rouge and massage, and
powder and cosmetics, to see real youth, not