ight-rope
walker in a circus. My world, Joan, is the happy-go-lucky Bohemia of
success and the democracy of real talent. We're actors and painters
and sculptors and writers and artists in general and all in all I think
we work a little more and play a little more, enjoy a little more and
suffer a little more than the rest of the world. Once in a while to be
sure a head grows a bit too big and then we all take a bop at it! But
the big thing is we're human; just folks, as a man in the grillroom
said one night. We're human and we're kind. It's not a smart set,
dear. And it's not an ultra-fashionable four-hundredy thing. God
forbid! It's the kind of Bohemia I love. And I'm sure you'll love it
too."

Her eyes were shining. In the dusk her color came to him like the
glimmer of a flower.

"Kenny!" she exclaimed. "How wonderful it all is, you and all of it!
And yet if--if I feel as I do, you must let me go for a year.
Otherwise if I lack confidence in myself--Oh, can't you see, Kenny, I
shall be shy and frightened and always ill at ease!"

"Go!" he echoed blankly.

"Somewhere," said Joan, "to study music and French and how to talk your
kind of nonsense. Hannah says there must be money enough in Uncle's
estate for that."

"Where," said Kenny, his heart cold, "would you go?"

"I thought," said Joan demurely, "that perhaps I could study in New
York where I wouldn't be so--lonesome."

He caught her in his arms.

"Heart of mine!" he whispered. "You thought of that."

"Then," said Joan, "I can learn something of your world before I become
a part of it. Don't you see, Kenny? I can look on and learn to
understand it. I should like that. Come, painter-man! The tea's
cold. And it's growing dark. We'd better light the lamp."

With the tea-pot singing again on the fire and the lamp lighted, Kenny,
but momentarily tractable, had another interval of rebellion. Joan, in
New York, might better be his wife. Joan, studying, might better have
him near to talk his sort of nonsense, listen to her music and make
love volubly in French to which she needed the practice of reply. His
plea was reckless and tender but Joan shook her head; and Kenny
realized with a sigh that her preposterous notion of unfitness was
strong in her mind and would not be denied.

"A year, Kenny!" pleaded Joan. "After all, what is a year? And at the
end I shall be so much happier and sure." She came shyly to his chair
and slipped her a