right, Alice, _it's all off_." His eyes were kinder now, but he spoke
firmly.

"Lloyd," she begged, "come _after_ the banquet."

"No!"

"I ask it for _you_. I--I feel that something is going to happen. Don't
laugh. Look at the sky, there beyond the black towers. It's red, red like
blood, and--Lloyd, I'm afraid."

Her eyes were fixed in the west with an enthralled expression, as if she
saw something there besides the masses of red and purple that crowned the
setting sun, something strange and terrifying. And in her agitation she
took the book and pencil from the bench, and nervously, almost
unconsciously wrote something on one of the fly leaves.

"Good-by, Alice," he said, holding out his hand.

"Good-by, Lloyd," she answered in a dull, tired voice, putting down the
book and giving him her own little hand.

As he turned to go he picked up the volume and his eye fell on the fly
leaf.

"Why," he started, "what is this?" He looked more closely at the words,
then sharply at her.

"I--I'm _so_ sorry," she stammered. "Have I spoiled your book?"