u know what he is doing now?"

"Doing now?" He stared at her blankly. "What on earth do you mean? Why,
he's been dead for months--killed in the campaign in East Africa--only
decent thing he ever did in his life. Why?"

Daphne never stirred. She stood quite still, staring at the painted
gate. Then she said, very carefully: "Some one thought--some one thought
that they had seen him--quite lately."

Robin laughed comfortingly. "No use looking so scared about it, my
blessed child. Perhaps they did. The War Office made all kinds of
ghastly blunders--it was a quick step from 'missing in action' to
'killed.' And he'd probably would have been jolly glad of a chance to
drop out quietly and have every one think he was done for."

Daphne never took her eyes from the gate. "Yes," she said quietly, "I
suppose he would. Will you get my basket, Robin? I left it by the
beehive. There are some cushions that belong in the East Indian room,
too. The south door is open."

When he had gone, she stood shaking for a moment, listening to his
footsteps die away, and then she flew to the gate, searching the
twilight desperately with straining eyes. There was no one there--no one
at all--but then the turn in the lane would have hidden him by now. And
suddenly terror fell from her like a cloak.

She turned swiftly to the brick wall, straining up, up on tiptoes, to
lay her cheek against its roughened surface, to touch it very gently
with her lips. She could hear Robin whistling down the path but she did
not turn. She was bidding farewell to Green Gardens--and the last
adventurer.

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY[14]

By FANNIE HURST

(From _The Cosmopolitan_)

By that same mausolean instinct that was Artimesia's when she mourned
her dear departed in marble and hieroglyphics; by that same
architectural gesture of grief which caused Jehan at Agra to erect the
Taj Mahal in memory of a dead wife and a cold hearthstone, so the Bon
Ton Hotel, even to the pillars with red-freckled monoliths and
peacock-backed lobby chairs, making the analogy rather absurdly
complete, reared its fourteen stories of "Elegantly furnished suites,
all the comforts and none of the discomforts of home."

A mausoleum to the hearth. And as true to form as any that ever mourned
the dynastic bones of an Augustus or a Hadrian.

It is doubtful if in all its hothouse garden of women the Hotel Bon Ton
boasted a broken finger-nail or that little brash place along the
forefing