one of the love-lyrics of the day. Breaking off in its midst, he
dropped the lyre and said with honest apology in his voice:

"I crave thy pardon, Ta-meri. What right had I to weight thee with my
cares! It was selfish, and yet--thou art so inviting a confidante,
that it is not wholly my fault if I come to seek of thee, my oldest and
sweetest friend, the woman comfort that was bereft me with my rightful
comforter."

"Neither mother nor sister nor lady-love," she mused. He nodded, but
the slight interrogative emphasis caught him, and he looked up at her.
He nodded again.

"Nay, nor lady-love, thanks to the luck of Nechutes."

"Nechutes is no longer lucky," she said deliberately.

"No matter," Kenkenes insisted. "I shall be gone eighteen days, and
his luck will have changed before I can return."

"Thine auguries seem to please thee," she pouted.

He put the back of her jeweled hand against his cheek.

"Nay, I but comfort thee at the sacrifice of mine own peace."

"A futile sacrifice."

"What!"