there he talked much, and she seemed to listen much. It was but the
vague, twilight, allusive talk which, coming readily to all men in love,
came the more readily to one always a poet, and not merely a poet by
being in love. Every one in love sees a little further into things, but
few see clearly, and hence love-talk has in general so little meaning.
Ordinary men in love gain glimpses of truth more and other than they
usually see, but from having so little dealing with the truth, they do
not even try to get a hold of it, they do not know it for truth even
when dallying with it. It is the true man's dreams that come true.

He raised her hand to his lips as at length she turned toward the
drawing-room, and he thought she more than yielded it, but could not be
sure. Anyhow she was not offended, for she smiled with her usual
sweetness as she bade him good-night.

"One instant, Mr. Colman!" she added: "I promised you a sedative! I will
run and get it. No, I won't keep you; I will send it to your room."

He had scarce shut his door when it opened again, and there was Lufa.

"I beg your pardon!" she said; "I thought you would not be come up, and
I wanted to make my little offering with my own hand: it owes so much to
you!"

She slipped past him, laid her book on his table, and went.

He lighted his candles with eager anxiety, and took it up. It was a
dramatic poem of some length, daintily bound in white vellum, with gilt
edges. On the title-page was written "The Master's Copy," with the date
and Lufa's initials. He threw himself into a great soft chair that with