h--and there _is_ a rough in every
fellow--maybe it's sand and maybe it's plain dirt."

This was all as wild and vague as anything Patricia or Joan could
evolve. It came of the season and the everlasting youth of life.

"I'm going to talk over the rot with that little white thing down at the
Brier Bush," Raymond declared one night to that self of his that stood
off on inspection; "what's the harm? She's got the occult bug, and I'm
keen about it just now. No one will be the worse for me having the
talk--she's all right and that veil of hers leaves us a lot freer to
speak out than face to face would." And then Raymond switched on the
lights and read certain books that held him rigid until he heard the
milkman in the street below.

In those nights Raymond learned to know that sounds have shades, as
objects have. Below, following, encompassing there were vague, haunting
echoes. Even the rattling of milk cans had them; the steps of the
watchman; the wind of early morning that stirs the darkness!

And then in the end Raymond did quite another thing from what he had
planned. He left the office one day at four-thirty and walked uptown. He
paced the block on which the Brier Bush was situated until he began to
feel conscious--then he walked around the block, always hurrying until
he came in sight of the tea room. He felt that all the summer
inhabitants of the city were drinking tea there that afternoon, and he
began to curse them for their folly.

It was five-forty-five when Joan came down the steps.

Raymond knew her at once by her walk. He had always noted that swing of
hers under her white robe. He did not believe another girl in the world
moved in just that way--it was like the laugh that belonged with it.
Indifferent, pleading, sweet, and brave--a bit daring, too. Joan was all
in white now. A trim linen suit; white stockings and shoes; a white silk
hat with a wide bow of white--Patricia kept her touch on Joan's
wardrobe.

Raymond waited until the girl before him had pulled on her long gloves
and reached the corner of Fifth Avenue, then he walked rapidly and
overtook her. He feared that he was leaping; he felt crude and rough;
but he had never been simpler and more sincere in his life. The
elemental was overpowering him, that was all.

"Good afternoon!" he blurted into Joan's astonished ears; "where are you
going?"

Joan turned and confronted him, not in alarm, but utter rout. Naturally
there was but one course for