open arms invited him, and began to read.

He had taken champagne pretty freely at dinner; his mind was yet in the
commotion left by the summer-wind of their many words that might seem so
much; he felt his kiss on her dainty hand, and her pressure of it to his
lips; as he read, she seemed still and always in the door-way, entering
with the book; its inscription was continually turning up with a shine:
such was the mood in which he read the poem. Through he read it, every
word, some of it many times; then rose and went to his writing-table, to
set down his judgment of his lady's poem. He wrote and wrote, almost
without pause. The dawn began to glimmer, the red blood of the morning
came back to chase the swoon of the night, ere at last, throwing down
his pen, he gave a sigh of weary joy, tore off his clothes, plunged into
his bed, and there lay afloat on the soft waves of sleep. And as he
slept, the sun came slowly up to shake the falsehood out of the earth.




CHAPTER XV.


REFLECTION.

Walter slept until nearly noon, then rose, very weary, but with a
gladness at his heart. On his table were spread such pages as must
please Lufa! His thoughts went back to the poem, but, to his uneasy
surprise, he found he did not recall it with any special pleasure. He
had had great delight in reading it, and in giving shape to his delight,
but he could not now think what kind of thing it was that had given him