rock. "I wish Ridgeley had time to play," Anne said; "it would be nice
for both of us--"

The amethyst light had gone, and the dusk descended. Anne's gray dress
was merged into the gray of the rock. She seemed just voice, and phantom
outline, and faint rose fragrance. Christopher recognized the scent. He
had sent her a precious vial in a sandalwood box. Nothing had seemed too
good for the wife of his old friend Dunbar.

"Life for you and Ridgeley," he told her, "should be something more than
work or play--it should be infinite adventure."

"Yes. But Ridgeley hasn't time for adventure."

"Oh, he thinks he hasn't--"

As Christopher talked after that, Anne was not sure that he was in
earnest. He complained that romance had fallen into disrepute. "With all
the modern stories--you know the formula--an ounce of sordidness, a
flavor of sensationalism, a dash of sex--" One had to look back for the
real thing--Aucassin and Nicolette, and all the rest. "That's why I
haven't married."

"Well, I have often wondered."

"If I loved a woman, I should want to make her life all glow and
color--and mine--with her--"

Anne's eyes were shining. What a big pleasant boy he was. He seemed so
young. He had a way of running his fingers up through his hair. She was