dice, and stolen
the rings off the fingers of an Argentine Jewess who--" His voice
twisted and broke before the lovely mercy in the frightened eyes that
still met his so bravely.

"But why, Stephen?"

"So that I could buy my dreams. So that I could purchase peace with
little dabs of brown in a pipe-bowl, little puffs of white in the palm
of my hand, little drops of liquid on a ball of cotton. So that I could
drug myself with dirt--and forget the dirt and remember England."

He rose to his feet with that swift grace of his, and Daphne rose too,
slowly.

"I am going now; will you walk to the gate with me?"

He matched his long step to hers, watching the troubled wonder on her
small white face intently.

"How old are you, my Dryad?"

"I am seventeen."

"Seventeen! Oh, God be good to us, I had forgotten that one could be
seventeen. What's that?"

He paused, suddenly alert, listening to a distant whistle, sweet on the
summer air.

"Oh, that--that is Robin."

"Ah--" His smile flashed, tender and ironic. "And who is Robin?"

"He is--just Robin. He is down from Cambridge for a week, and I told him
that he might walk home with me."

"Then I must be off quickly. Is he coming to this gate?"

"No, to the south one."

"Listen to me, my Dryad--are you listening?" For her face was turned
away.

"Yes," said Daphne.

"You are going to forget me--to forget this afternoon--to forget
everything but Robin whistling through the summer twilight."

"No," said Daphne.

"Yes; because you have a very poor memory about unhappy things! You told
me so. But just for a minute after I have gone, you will remember that
now all is very well with me, because I have found the deep meadows--and
honey still for tea--and you. You are to remember that for just one
minute--will you? And now good-by--"

She tried to say the words, but she could not. For a moment he stood
staring down at the white pathos of the small face, and then he turned
away. But when he came to the gate, he paused and put his arms about the
wall, as though he would never let it go, laying his cheek against the
sun-warmed bricks, his eyes fast closed. The whistling came nearer, and
he stirred, put his hand on the little painted gate, vaulted across it
lightly, and was gone. She turned at Robin's quick step on the walk.

"Ready, dear? What are you staring at?"

"Nothing! Robin--Robin, did you ever hear of Stephen Fane?"

He nodded grimly.

"Do you know--do yo