terrace. Upon the
recent combat of their wills there seemed to have succeeded a calmness
of aftermath. If Stuart had as Conscience expressed it "fired on Fort
Sumpter" his subsequent conduct had in a fashion belied his vehemence of
pronunciamento. Now his artillery of resource was silent. Perhaps the
weariness and heightened pallor of the woman's face, which gave it an
ethereal quality, made an appeal upon the chivalry his postulates
denied.

This afternoon the entire landscape carried a tuneful message and a
brilliant sparkle and play of colors. It was a day for peace and
laughter, rather than for heart-bruising discussion--and they were still
young enough to seize upon and avail themselves of such respites.

Farquaharson laid aside the manuscript of an unfinished novel, with
which Conscience had been assisting him as critic and amanuensis, and
let his eyes dwell on her face.

She was wearing a smock of rose-colored silk which fell like drapery,
rather than mere clothing, about her and seemed to kindle a delicate
echo of its pinkness in the ivory of her cheeks. For a little while the
author forgot his work.

"Dearest," he said suddenly, and though he couched his words in form
and voice of the whimsical they held the essence of entire sincerity, "I
hate to seem unduly impressionable or sentimental--but there's something
rather marvelous about you. You'd make a man--even a hardened one--want
to go down on his knees before you in worship and at the same time you'd
make a timid one want to dare hellfire to take you in his arms. In
short, you're a secret and a riddle: an enticement and a sobering
inspiration."

The woman's cheeks momentarily reflected more warmly the rosy color of
her smock and to her eyes came a mischievous riffle.

"Or to say all that more briefly, Stuart," she replied in a
disconcertingly matter-of-fact voice, "I'm a woman--and incidentally you
mustn't drop into the habit of calling me dearest."

The old boyhood smoldering blazed briefly in the man's face, but cleared
at once into a smile.

"You were criticizing the woman psychology of my heroine, I believe," he
said calmly, lifting the neglected manuscript in his one good hand.
"What's wrong with her?"

"She's mid-Victorian. She's not modern," ruled the critic. "Her virtue
is just a sugary saintliness that doesn't ring true. Any real woman in
her circumstances would feel more disgraced by her marriage than by a
divorce."

Farquaharson rai