"We're whipped," he told her, "and that settles it. Now there's other work
for us than brooding over it. All the same, the South has a future, Bibi,
and that means a future for you and me."

"Not in the manufacture of poetry, I'm afraid," she laughed. "You dropped a
stitch."

She did not seem to take his prowess, either past or to come, very
seriously; and her eyebrows and her inflection went up at the assumption of
the "we" in his plans. But--she listened.

His definiteness was itself effective. She herself did not know what she
wanted. Something was wrong; or rather, everything was. She was finding
life a great bore. But what would be right, she couldn't say, except that
it must be different.

Guy looked sure and seasoned as he poured out his plans; and together with
the maturing tan and breadth from his rough life, there was an
unconquerable boyishness in the lift of his head and the light of his eyes.

"This enthusiasm is truly beautiful!" she teased.

It was, in truth, infectious.

Why! it was love she had wanted. The four years had been so empty--without
Guy.

She went into it alert, receptive, optimistic. But it nettled her that
everybody should be so congratulatory, and nobody surprised. It wasn't what