anyone who might come in. He had
taken this--his favourite romance, feeling in want of warmth and
companionship; but he did not read. From where he sat he could throw a
stone to where she was sitting perhaps; except for walls he could almost
reach her with his voice, could certainly see her. This was imbecile! A
woman he had only met twice. Imbecile! He opened the book--

"Oh, no; it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken.
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown altho' its height be taken."

"Point of five! Three queens--three knaves! Do you know that thing of
Dowson's: 'I have been faithful to thee, Cynara, in my fashion'? Better
than any Verlaine, except 'Les sanglots longs.' What have you got?"

"Only quart to the queen. Do you like the name 'Cynara'?"

"Yes; don't you?"

"Cynara! Cynara! Ye-es--an autumn, rose-petal, whirling, dead-leaf
sound."

"Good! Pipped. Shut up, Ossy--don't snore!"

"Ah, poor old dog! Let him. Shuffle for me, please. Oh! there goes
another card!" Her knee was touching his--!...

The book had dropped--Summerhay started.

Dash it! Hopeless! And, turning round in that huge armchair, he snoozed
down into its depths. In a few minutes, he was asleep. He slept without
a dream.

It was two hours later when the same friend, seeking distraction, came
on him, and stood grinning down at that curly head and face which just
then had the sleepy abandonment of a small boy's. Maliciously he gave
the chair a little kick.

Summerhay stirred, and thought: 'What! Where am I?'

In front of the grinning face, above him, floated another, filmy,
charming. He shook himself, and sat up. "Oh, damn you!"

"Sorry, old chap!"

"What time is it?"

"Ten o'clock."

Summerhay uttered an unintelligible sound, and, turning over on the
other arm, pretended to snooze down again. But he slept no more.
Instead, he saw her face, heard her voice, and felt again the touch of
her warm, gloved hand.

III

At the opera, that Friday evening, they were playing "Cavalleria"
and "Pagliacci"--works of which Gyp tolerated the first and loved the
second, while Winton found them, with "Faust" and "Carmen," about the
only operas he could not sleep through.

Women's eyes, which must not stare, cover more space than the eyes of
men, which must not stare, but do; women's eyes have less method, too,
seeing all things at once, instead of one thing