riend" describe her. He was comfortably vague as to
the actual constituents of a lady. A lady was perhaps described as a
woman with whom it was impossible to be wholly at ease. Yes, he
whispered to himself, but for a different reason. He felt defeated in
his attempts to stabilize his impressions. He had no comparisons. It was
like comparing a bottle of wine with a bottle of milk. Even Ada.... He
moved so abruptly as he followed close on the heels of Mr. Dainopoulos
that the latter looked at him in inquiry, and thought a remark was
necessary.

"We can fix our little business any time before you go away," he
murmured.

But Mr. Spokesly was not thinking of the little business just then. He
found himself suddenly confronting the conviction in his mind that his
Ada had been little more than a shining reflector of his own image. Ada,
in beleaguered England, seemed very far away and her personality lost
whatever distinction and magnetism it may have had while he was with
her. He saw with perfect clarity a new truth beyond that first one--that
Mrs. Dainopoulos had been aware of all this while she had plied her
gentle smiling questions. Had she meant anything, then? How could one
plumb the mind of a woman? There was something almost sinister in the
notion that she had known all along how he was situated, how he felt,
and let him sit there while a girl like an indignant enchantress came in
and worked some sort of spell upon him. He began to wonder if the girl
was real; whether he had not dreamed she was there. He was aghast at the
insensibility of Mr. Dainopoulos who was leading the way across the
street, his head bent and his damaged features set in a meditative
scowl. In what way could one account for it? A woman like that! A woman
already with a power over himself that frightened him. Ada! He thought
of Ada almost as a refuge from this new emotion assaulting his heart.
There was safety with Ada. He knew, within reasonable limits, the range
of which she was capable, the tone and timbre of her soul. Here, he
comprehended with surprising readiness, he would be called on to do
something more than talk conventionally of love. It was all very well,
he could see, to jog along from year to year, having a little fun here
and there, and getting engaged and even married; but it was no more than
the normal function of a human organism. Beyond that he could see
something ruthless, powerful, and destructive. He experienced an
extraordinar