ddenly, seeing the fire and tenderness and yearning of his
eyes, and stretching out her arms to him before she was awake. And
yet she had never tried so hard to divine every shade of Morrison's
fastidiousness and had never felt so supreme a satisfaction in knowing
that she did. There were strange, brief moments in her life now, when
out of the warring complexity in her heart there rose the simple
longing of a little girl to go to her mother, to feel those strong,
unfailing arms about her. She began to guess dimly, without thinking
about it at all, that her mother knew some secret of life, of balance,
that she did not. And yet if her mother were at hand, she knew she
could never explain to her--how could she, when she did not know
herself?--what she was living through. How long she had waited the
moment when she _would_ know!

One day towards the end of May, Morrison had come in for lunch, a
delicately chosen, deceptively simple meal for which Yoshida had
outdone himself. There had been a savory mixture of sweetbreads and
mushrooms in a smooth, rich, creamy sauce; green peas that had been on
the vines at three o'clock that morning, and which still had the aroma
of life in their delectable little balls; sparkling Saumur; butter
with the fragrance of dew and clover in it; crisp, crusty rolls;
artichokes in oil--such a meal as no money can buy anywhere but in
Paris in the spring, such a simple, simple meal as takes a great deal
of money to buy even in Paris.

"It is an art to eat like this," said Morrison, more than half
seriously, after he had taken the first mouthful of the golden souffle
which ended the meal. "What a May we have had! I have been thinking so
often of Talleyrand's saying that no one who had not lived before the
French Revolution, under the old regime, could know how sweet life
could be; and I've been thinking that we may live to say that about
the end of this regime. Such perfect, golden hours as it has for those
who are able to seize them. It is a debt we own the Spirit of Things
to be grateful and to appreciate our opportunity."

"As far as the luncheon goes, it's rather a joke, isn't it," said his
hostess, "that it should be an Oriental cook who has so caught the
true Gallic accent? I'll tell Tojiko to tell Yoshido that his efforts
weren't lost on you. He adores cooking for you. No, you speak about it
yourself. Here comes Tojiko with the mail."

She reached for the _Herald_ with one hand, and with t