past him like a river. He stood at the springs of creation and
heard the primeval monotony. Then an obscure instrument gave out
a little phrase.

The river continued unheeding. The phrase was repeated and a
listener might know it was a fragment of the Tune of tunes.
Nobler instruments accepted it, the clarionet protected, the
brass encouraged, and it rose to the surface to the whisper of
violins. In full unison was Love born, flame of the flame,
flushing the dark river beneath him and the virgin snows above.
His wings were infinite, his youth eternal; the sun was a jewel
on his finger as he passed it in benediction over the world.
Creation, no longer monotonous, acclaimed him, in widening
melody, in brighter radiances. Was Love a column of fire? Was he
a torrent of song? Was he greater than either--the touch of a man
on a woman?

It was the merest accident that Rickie had not been disgusted.
But this he could not know.

Mr. Pembroke, when he called the two dawdlers into lunch, was
aware of a hand on his arm and a voice that murmured, "Don't--
they may be happy."

He stared, and struck the gong. To its music they approached,
priest and high priestess.

"Rickie, can I give these sandwiches to the boot boy?" said the
one. "He would love them."