stirred for once in her gentle soul to think that the mere sight
of a strange woman with dark eyes,--a woman whom no one knew
anything about, and who was by some people deemed a mere
adventuress,--should have so overwhelmed this man whose genius she
had deemed superior to fleeting impressions. Controlling the tears
that rose to her eyes and threatened to fall, she said gently,

"Good-bye, Monsieur Gervase!"

He started as from a reverie.

"Good-bye, Helen! Some day you will think kindly of me again?"

"I think kindly of you now," she answered tremulously; then, not
trusting herself to say any more, she turned swiftly and left him.

"The flame and the moth!" he mused, watching her slight figure
till it had disappeared. "Yes, it is the only fitting symbol. Love
must be always so. Sudden, impetuous, ungovernable, and then--the
end! To stretch out the divine passion over life-long breakfasts
and dinners! It would be intolerable to me. Lord Fulkeward could
do that sort of thing; his chest is narrow, and his sentiments are
as limited as his chest. He would duly kiss his wife every morning
and evening, and he would not analyze the fact that no special
thrill of joy stirred in him at the action. What should he do with
thrills of joy--this poor Fulkeward? And yet it is likely he will
marry Helen. Or will it be the Courtney animal,--the type of man
whose one idea is 'to arise, kill, and eat?' "Ah, well!" and he
sighed. "She is not for me, this maiden grace of womanhood. If I
married her, I should make her miserable. I am made for passion,