nervously together, her head was downcast.

"Your words," she continued, her voice sinking almost to a whisper, yet
lacking nothing in distinctness, "are like wine. They mount to the head,
they intoxicate, they tempt! And yet all the time one knows that it is
not possible. Surely you yourself--in your heart--must know it!"

"Not I!" he answered, fiercely. "The world would have claimed me if
it could, but I laughed at it. Our destinies are our own. With our own
fingers we mould and shape them."

"There is the little voice," she said, "the little voice, which rings
even through our dreams. Life--actual, militant life, I mean--may have
its vulgarities, its weariness and its disappointments, but it is, after
all, the only place for men and women. The battle may be sordid, and the
prizes tinsel--yet it is only the cowards who linger without."

"Then let you and me be cowards," he answered. "We shall at least be
happy."

She shook her head a little sadly.

"I doubt it," she answered. "Happiness is a gift, not a prize. It comes
seldom enough to those who seek it."

He laughed scornfully.

"I am not a seeker," he cried. "I possess. It seems to me that all the
beautiful things of life are here to-night. Listen! Do you hear the sea,
the full tide sweeping softly up into the land, a long drawn out