would always 'run yourself down,' if one paid any attention to it. But to
give up the world, to drop out of it without regret, to come here and do
what you have done, and to live the life that must be so desperately dry
and dull for a man of your sort, and yet to have the kind of heart that
makes wonderful melodies sing in itself--oh!" she cried, "I say that is
fine!"

"You do not understand," he returned, sadly, wishing, before her, to be
unmercifully just to himself. "I came here because I couldn't make a
living anywhere else. And the 'wonderful melodies'--I have known you only
one evening--and the melodies--" He rose to his feet and took a few steps
toward the garden. "Come," he said. "Let me take you back. Let us go
before I--" he finished with a helpless laugh.

She stood by the bench, one hand resting on it; she stood all in the
tremulant shadow. She moved one step toward him, and a single, long sliver
of light pierced the sycamores and fell upon her head. He gasped.

"What was it about the melodies?" she said.

"Nothing! I don't know how to thank you for this evening that you have
given me. I--I suppose you are leaving to-morrow. No one ever stays
here.--I----"

"What about the melodies?"

He gave it up. "The moon makes people insane!" he cried.

"If that is true," she returned, "then you need not be more afraid than I,
because 'people' is plural. What were you saying about----"