floated in her dark glistening eyes. Then she smiled, sadly but with
courage.

"I will come to see you again," said the man comfortingly. "Are you
here in the afternoons?"

"Every afternoon, naturally."

"Well, I will come--not to-morrow--the day after to-morrow."

Already, long before, interrupting the buttoning of his collar, she
had whispered softly, persuasively, clingingly, in the classic manner:

"Thou art content, _chéri_? Thou wilt return?"

And he had said: "That goes without saying."

But not with quite the same conviction as he now used in speaking
definitely of the afternoon of the day after to-morrow. The fact
was, he was moved; she too. She had been right not to tell the story
earlier, and equally right to tell it before he departed. Some men,
most men, hated to hear any tale of real misfortune, at any moment,
from a woman, because, of course, it diverted their thoughts.

In thus departing at once the man showed characteristic tact. Her
recital left nothing to be said. They kissed again, rather like
comrades. Christine was still the vessel of the heavy sorrow of the
world, but in the kiss and in their glances was an implication that
the effective, triumphant antidote to sorrow might be found in a
mutual trust. He opened the door. The Italian woman, yawning and with