n afford to hire
the cab in the first place."

"Seventy-five cents, then," he declared resolutely. "Not a cent less. I
should feel humiliated with any less."

"Will you please take me down to the cab, Landry Court?" she cried. And
without further comment Landry obeyed.

"Now, Miss Dearborn, if you are ready," exclaimed Corthell, as he came
up. He held the umbrella over her head, allowing his shoulders to get
the drippings.

They cried good-by again all around, and the artist guided her down the
slippery steps. He handed her carefully into the hansom, and following,
drew down the glasses.

Laura settled herself comfortably far back in her corner, adjusting her
skirts and murmuring:

"Such a wet night. Who would have thought it was going to rain? I was
afraid you were not coming at first," she added. "At dinner Mrs.
Cressler said you had an important committee meeting--something to do
with the Art Institute, the award of prizes; was that it?"

"Oh, yes," he answered, indifferently, "something of the sort was on. I
suppose it was important--for the Institute. But for me there is only
one thing of importance nowadays," he spoke with a studied
carelessness, as though announcing a fact that Laura must know already,
"and that is, to be near you. It is astonishing. You have no idea of
it, how I have ordered my whole life according to that idea."

"As though you expected me to believe that," she answered.

In her other lovers she knew her words would have provoked vehement
protestation. But for her it was part of the charm of Corthell's
attitude that he never did or said the expected, the ordinary. Just now
he seemed more interested in the effect of his love for Laura upon
himself than in the manner of her reception of it.

"It is curious," he continued. "I am no longer a boy. I have no
enthusiasms. I have known many women, and I have seen enough of what
the crowd calls love to know how futile it is, how empty, a vanity of
vanities. I had imagined that the poets were wrong, were idealists,
seeing the things that should be rather than the things that were. And
then," suddenly he drew a deep breath: "_this_ happiness; and to me.
And the miracle, the wonderful is there--all at once--in my heart, in
my very hand, like a mysterious, beautiful exotic. The poets are
wrong," he added. "They have not been idealists enough. I wish--ah,
well, never mind."

"What is it that you wish?" she asked, as he broke off suddenly. Laura