ht almost made up for his momentary embarrassment at the rousing
of a memory which had no place in his present picture of himself.

Yes! It was worth a good deal to watch that fight between her instinct
and her intelligence, and know one's self the object of the struggle...

Mingled with these sensations were considerations of another order. He
reflected with satisfaction that she was the kind of woman with whom
one would like to be seen in public. It would be distinctly agreeable
to follow her into drawing-rooms, to walk after her down the aisle of a
theatre, to get in and out of trains with her, to say "my wife" of her
to all sorts of people. He draped these details in the handsome
phrase "She's a woman to be proud of", and felt that this fact somehow
justified and ennobled his instinctive boyish satisfaction in loving
her.

He stood up, rambled across the room and leaned out for a while into
the starry night. Then he dropped again into his armchair with a sigh of
deep content.

"Oh, hang it," he suddenly exclaimed, "it's the best thing that's ever
happened to me, anyhow!"

The next day was even better. He felt, and knew she felt, that they had
reached a clearer understanding of each other. It was as if, after a
swim through bright opposing waves, with a dazzle of sun in their eyes,
they had gained an inlet in the shades of a cliff, where they could
float on the still surface and gaze far down into the depths.

Now and then, as they walked and talked, he felt a thrill of youthful
wonder at the coincidence of their views and their experiences, at the
way their minds leapt to the same point in the same instant.

"The old delusion, I suppose," he smiled to himself. "Will Nature never
tire of the trick?"

But he knew it was more than that. There were moments in their talk when
he felt, distinctly and unmistakably, the solid ground of friendship
underneath the whirling dance of his sensations. "How I should like her
if I didn't love her!" he summed it up, wondering at the miracle of such
a union.

In the course of the morning a telegram had come from Owen Leath,
announcing that he, his grandmother and Effie would arrive from Dijon
that afternoon at four. The station of the main line was eight or ten
miles from Givre, and Anna, soon after three, left in the motor to meet
the travellers.

When she had gone Darrow started for a walk, planning to get back late,
in order that the reunited family might have the end