ely all these fine-spun barriers, all these cunning Alps that
she had thrown up day after day, were over-leaped at a supple bound.
Master herself she might; but he stood in his man's power and pride and
love, a suppliant, yet king, asking with wordless lips a little favor,
taking with calm yet passionate eyes a royal largess. Her heart sank;
her breath came in one long, tremulous sweep. Whether she gave, or he
took, she could not have told; but he went away with the pansies in his
fingers, despite Sylvie's pleading for a longer stay.

When he was quite out of sight, he kissed them, sweet, tender, longing
kisses. Then he dropped them between the white leaves of a little book,
to be sacred forever. Sylvie's _boutonniere_ might keep him company
outwardly, but those no eye must feast upon.

He took the fine right of a lover, not declared, yet certain of his
ground, not using any power that she could disdain or wound, it was so
delicate, intangible, the perfume without the flower, the little
thoughtfulness for her, reaching for her fan, folding her shawl about
her if the evening blew up cool, seeming to know her wants the very
instant they occurred to herself. And though she rebelled in secret,
though she resolved heroically to put an end to it all, the golden
moment never came.

It seemed as if the four were always together. Not but what Yerbury
opened spacious doors to them, and proffered flattering welcomes; but
they could not tone themselves to the insipidities of society. There
were more complete and intense enjoyments. Sylvie and Irene took long
drives through country lanes, or of a moonlight summer evening they all
went. They sat on the porch, and Jack came strolling by: they went
within, and there were books, music, desultory talking, and that
wondrous, unseen guest in their midst.

Sylvie rarely left her alone. They were not the women to tease one
another by flippant jests or allusions; and Mrs. Fred, of all others,
had a dread of thrusting any vulgar face on this colorless, yet
delicious, atmosphere. Love knew his own, and was sacredly known of
them.

Irene Lawrence could no more help blossoming under the intense yet
steady warmth of his temperament, the vivid creative life in every
feature, than she could have helped being at all; and to have refused or
destroyed the love would have been as sure spiritual suicide as a poison
to the body. He understood that she came to see this presently; and then
his suit wa