-what are these perishable gifts? Gauds of time! Did
some poet say that, or have I made the phrase? The foolish broidery on
the web of life, to wear and wear with years! But what lies behind to
engender the token--ah, that is the eternal! I cannot penetrate her
heart to see the living thoughts that thus denote themselves; but I
know my own. I challenge time itself to match them with a brood more
great. My love, my faith in her, my sacrifice, these are giants,
springing into sudden Titanic birth, and Homer's heroes are pygmies to
them. So the night calmed me, and I thanked God (did I ever write that
word before? Did I ever really think it?) that my soul was born. But in
the morning the mood had passed. I knew still what I had learned, but I
could not feel it. My father, my dear father! He sits all day with
Homer open on his knee, and does not read. Once after the others had
been here, and he saw me wince when she and the man went laughing off
together, he said to me, almost as if he were afraid to say it:--

"Don't overestimate the little familiarities of social life." He said
it, but I could not answer.

[Sidenote: _Zoe Montrose to Francis Hume_]

Well--child! (You are nothing more--nothing!) Our guest has gone. Now
let us hope you will straightway begin to get back your color. You look
like the travesty of Hope Deferred. Dress you for Pierrot, and you'd
serve well for the ghost of youthful folly. But you have behaved
excellently. Socially speaking, you have watched beside your arms.
Consider yourself knighted. Shall I tell you a secret? The Forest of
Arden is not a proper trysting-place for folk who have met in the town;
at least, if one of them has been learning the sweet directness of the
woods. For I, whom this man somewhat enchains and always did,--when I
saw him among the trees, I knew he was very worldly and a trifle fat!
And he does not swim well. And he slept o' mornings, and I could not
help thinking of you wandering--albeit like a zany whose bauble is
hid--in the dewy brake. Understand plainly, you are at this moment dear
to me. The thought of you is sweet as Endymion to Diana; yet I who am
no Dian, but a poor _fin de siecle_ spinster, her being distorted by
culture, would withdraw from you were you here, as the chaste huntress
from Actaeon. I like you; but I mean nothing by the saying, nothing,
nothing! Nay, and I said "I love," it would be but lightly, as if we
were both in a little play: a play which nob