here. It looks
like a little toy."

"Yes," said Suzanne with a little gasp. She inhaled her breath as she
pronounced this word which gave it an airy breathlessness which had a
touch of demure pathos in it. "Oh, it is perfect."

"Your hair," he said. "You don't know how nice you look. You fit this
scene exactly."

"Don't speak of me," she pleaded. "I look so tousled. The wind in the
train blew my hair so I ought to go the ladies' dressing room and hunt
up a maid."

"Stay here," said Eugene. "Don't go. It is all so lovely."

"I won't now. I wish we might always sit here. You, just as you are
there, and I here."

"Did you ever read the 'Ode on a Grecian Urn'?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember the lines 'Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst
not leave'?"

"Yes, yes," she answered ecstatically.

"'Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss
Though winning near the goal--yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love and she be fair.'"

"Don't, don't," she pleaded.

He understood. The pathos of that great thought was too much for her. It
hurt her as it did him. What a mind!

They rocked and swung idly, he pushing with his feet at times in which
labor she joined him. They strolled up the beach and sat down on a green
clump of grass overlooking the sea. Idlers approached and passed. He
laid his arm to her waist and held her hand, but something in her mood
stayed him from any expression. Through dinner at the hotel it was the
same and on the way to the train, for she wanted to walk through the
dark. Under some tall trees, though, in the rich moonlight prevailing,
he pressed her hand.

"Oh, Suzanne," he said.

"No, no," she breathed, drawing back.

"Oh, Suzanne," he repeated, "may I tell you?"

"No, no," she answered. "Don't speak to me. Please don't. Let's just
walk. You and I."

He hushed, for her voice, though sad and fearsome, was imperious. He
could not do less than obey this mood.

They went to a little country farmhouse which ranged along the track in
lieu of a depot, and sang a quaint air from some old-time comic opera.

"Do you remember the first time when you came to play tennis with me?"
he asked.

"Yes."

"Do you know I felt a strange vibration before your coming and all
during your playing. Did you?"

"Yes."

"What is that, Suzanne?"

"I don't know."

"Don't you want to know?"

"No, no, Mr. Witla, not now."

"Mr. Witla?"

"