"Shall I see you to-morrow?"

"I don't think so. I must go over my papers and things so as to be ready
at any moment to leave the house."

"And then?"

"Then--"

He took her in his arms and looked long and deeply into her eyes.

"Yes," she replied--"at least, perhaps."

Then he turned to go, resolute and happy. How strangely he had matured
since the summer! Her heart swelled with the consciousness that it was
her love that had effected this transformation.

"As I cannot expect you to-morrow, I shall probably go to the opera, but
I shall be at home before midnight. Will you call me up then? A word
from you will put me at ease for the night, even if it comes over the
telephone."

"I will call you up. We moderns have an advantage over the ancients in
this respect: the twentieth-century Pyramus can speak to Thisbe even if
innumerable walls sever his body from hers."

"A quaint conceit! But let us hope that our love-story will end less
tragically," she said, tenderly caressing his hair. "Oh, we shall be
happy, you and I," she added, after a while. "The iron finger of fate
that lay so heavily on our lives is now withdrawn. Almost withdrawn.