sick of the war itself; and Gisela, who doled half-measures neither to
herself nor others, had dismissed the morrow and yielded herself to the
joy of the future as of the present. What she had felt for this man in
her early twenties seemed a mere partnership of romance and sentiment
fused by young nerves, compared with the mature passion he had shocked
from its long recuperative sleep. He was her mate, her other part. Her
long fidelity, unshaken by time, her own temperament and many
opportunities, all were proof of that.

The caste of great lovers in this unfinished world is small and almost
inaccessible, but they had taken their place by immemorial right. Were
it not for this history of her own making they would find every phase of
happiness in each other as long as they both lived. Women, at least,
know instinctively the difference between the transient passion, no
matter how powerful, and the deathless bond.

Gisela glanced at her wrist watch. It was within seventy minutes of the
dawn. If she could only be sure that he would sleep until Munich herself
awoke him. But he had told her that he never slept these days more than
two or three hours at a time, no matter how weary.

If he awoke before it was time for her to leave the house and renewed
his love-making, her response would be as automatic as the progress of
life itself.

If she attempted to leave the house before sunrise, on no matter what
pretext, his suspicions would be aroused, for she had told him that she
had been given a week for rest. For the same reason she dared not awaken
him and ask him to go. He would refuse, for it was no time to slip out
of a woman's apartment; far better wait until ten o'clock, when there