saint's, gazing at him out of unplumbed depths of purity. And, somehow,
he felt within him a stir of power. He was better than this. Life meant
more to him than it meant to these two girls whose thoughts did not go
beyond ice-cream and a gentleman friend. He remembered that he had led
always a secret life in his thoughts. These thoughts he had tried to
share, but never had he found a woman capable of understanding--nor a
man. He had tried, at times, but had only puzzled his listeners. And as
his thoughts had been beyond them, so, he argued now, he must be beyond
them. He felt power move in him, and clenched his fists. If life meant
more to him, then it was for him to demand more from life, but he could
not demand it from such companionship as this. Those bold black eyes had
nothing to offer. He knew the thoughts behind them--of ice-cream and of
something else. But those saint's eyes alongside--they offered all he
knew and more than he could guess. They offered books and painting,
beauty and repose, and all the fine elegance of higher existence. Behind
those black eyes he knew every thought process. It was like clockwork.
He could watch every wheel go around. Their bid was low pleasure, narrow
as the grave, that palled, and the grave was at the end of it. But the
bid of the saint's eyes was mystery, and wonder unthinkable, and eternal
life. He had caught glimpses of the soul in them, and glimpses of his
own soul, too.

"There's only one thing wrong with the programme," he said aloud. "I've
got a date already."

The girl's eyes blazed her disappointment.

"To sit up with a sick friend, I suppose?" she sneered.

"No, a real, honest date with--" he faltered, "with a girl."