Blank incredulity was on Mary's face. She glanced at the watch and up at
him and again she shook her head.

"This man," Burgess went on, "is a friend of Miss Masters and it was
through her that he first heard of the Lady Hyacinths. He was an idler
then. A shiftless, worthless loafer, but the Lady Hyacinths made a man
of him and he's gone out and got a job."

Comprehension overwhelming, overmastering, flashed into Mary's eyes. But
her promise held her silent and in her chair. Again it was as though she
had spoken.

"Yes, I see you understand--you probably think of me as an old man past
the time of love and yet I love you."

"Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love."

"That's all I have to offer you, sweetheart. Just love and my life," and
he in turn went to the window and looked out into the gathering dusk.

Mary sat absolutely still. She knew now that she was dreaming. Just so
the dream had always run and when the five minutes were past, she rose
and went to him: a true Ophelia, her arms all full of hyacinths.

"My honored Lord," said she. He turned, and the dream held.