s be loved
forever?"

"I don't know it. It's beautiful. What is it?"

"Gilbert Murray's translation of 'The Bacchae.' My legal mentors had a
lapse of dry-as-dustness and sent it to me."

"'To stand from fear set free, to breathe and wait,'" murmured the girl.
"That is what I've been doing here. How good it is! But not for you,"
she added, her tone changing from dreamy to practical. "Ban, I suspect
there's too much poetry in your cosmos."

"Very probably. Poetry isn't success, is it?"

Her face grew eager. "It might be. The very highest. But you've got to
make yourself known and felt among people."

"Do you think I could? And how does one get that kind of desire?" he
asked lazily.

"How? I've known men to do it for love; and I've known them to do it for
hate; and I've known them to do it for money. Yes; and there's another
cause."

"What is it?"

"Restlessness."

"That's ambition with its nerves gone bad, isn't it?"

Again she smiled. "You'll know what it is some day."

"Is it contagious?" he asked solicitously.

"Don't be alarmed. I haven't it. Not now. I'd love to stay on and on and
just 'breathe and wait,' if the gods were good."

'"Dream that the gods are good,'" he echoed. "The last thing they ever
think of being according to my reading."

She capped his line;

"We twain, once well in sunder, What will the mad gods do--'"

she began; then broke off, jumping to her feet. "I'm talking sheer
nonsense!" she cried. "Take me for a walk in the woods. The desert
glares to-day."

"I'll have to be back by twelve," he said. "Excuse me just a moment."

He disappeared into the portable house. When he rejoined her, she asked:

"What did you go in there for? To get your revolver?"

"Yes."

"I've carried one since the day you told me to. Not that I've met a soul
that looked dangerous, nor that I'd know how to shoot or when, if I
did."

"The sight of it would be taken as evidence that you knew how to use
it," he assured her.

For a time, as they walked, she had many questions to put about the tree
and bird life surrounding them. In the midst of it he asked her:

"Do you ever get restless?"

"I haven't, here. I'm getting rested."

"And at home I suppose you're too busy."

"Being busy is no preventive. Somebody has said that St. Vitus is the
patron saint of New York society."

"It must take almost all the time those people have to keep up with the
theaters and with the best in poetry and what's