ted
for the procession to overtake him.

"Peachy," Julia asked in an aside, "have you ever asked Ralph what he
intends to do about Angela's wings?"

"What he intends to do?" Peachy echoed. "What do you mean? What can he
intend to do? What has he to say about them, anyway?"

"He may not intend anything," Julia answered gravely. "Still, if I were
you, I'd have a talk with him."

Time had brought its changes to the five men as to the five women; but
they were not such devastating changes.

Honey led the march, a huge wreath of uprooted blossoming plants hanging
about his neck. He was at the prime of his strength, the zenith of his
beauty and, in the semi-nudity that the climate permitted, more
than ever like a young wood-god. Health shone from his skin in a
copper-bronze that seemed to overlay the flesh like armor. Happiness
shone from his eyes in a fire-play that seemed never to die down. One
year more and middle age might lay its dulling finger upon him. But now
he positively flared with youth.

Close behind Honey came Billy Fairfax, still shock-headed, his blond
hair faded to tow, slimmer, more serious, more fine. His eyes ran ahead
of the others, found Julia's face, lighted up. His gaze lingered there
in a tender smile.

Just over Billy's shoulder, Pete appeared, a Pete as thin and nervous
as ever, the incipient black beard still prickling in tiny ink-spots
through a skin stained a deep mahogany. There was some subtle change in
Pete that was not of the flesh but of the spirit. Perhaps the look in
his face--doubly wild of a Celt and of a genius--had tamed a little. But
in its place had come a question: undoubtedly he had gained in spiritual
dignity and in humorous quality.

Ralph Addington followed Pete. And Ralph also had changed. True, he
retained his inalienable air of elegance, an elegance a little too
sartorial. And even after six years of the jungle, he maintained
his picturesqueness. Long-haired, liquid-eyed, still with a beard
symmetrically pointed and a mustache carefully cropped, he was more than
ever like a young girl's idea of an artist. And yet something different
had come into his face, The slight touch of gray in his wavy hair did
not account for it; nor the lines, netting delicately his long-lashed
eyes. The eyes themselves bore a baffled expression, half of revolt,
half of resignation; as one who has at last found the immovable
obstacle, who accepts the situation even while he rebels against i