tory;
whether there were not times when Simeon's absence was precious to
her. Without disloyalty to his friend, he hoped so, for he had
something to tell her before the day was over that might lead to a
temporary separation, and he hated to think of those lovely eyes
swimming in tears--all women were not Penelopes.

"She can't care in _that way_," he reflected. "Ponsonby is tremendous
in his own line, of course, but no woman could love him."

Perhaps he was mistaken--perhaps Mrs. Ponsonby loved her husband with
all the fervor of passion, but she conveyed an impression of
emancipation to-day, and of powers of enjoyment hitherto suppressed,
that made Stephen doubt. She was like a child bubbling over with
happiness, gay as a lark, as unlike her usual self in behavior as her
modish appearance was unlike that of Simeon Ponsonby's self-denying
wife.

"Of course she won't mind; why should she?" he decided, and yet
determined to put off making his announcement till after lunch.

At Wolfshead they stopped at the little inn, found the one o'clock
dinner smoking on the table, and sat down with the rest of the hungry
company--employees of a branch railroad that had its terminus there;
drummers in flashy shop-made clothes, and temporary residents in the
little town. This jaunt had given them an appetite, and roast beef and
apple tart disappeared at a rate that should have doubled their bill.

After lunch they strolled down to the beach, Deena starting ahead with
French, while Polly went with Ben to get cushions from the automobile.
The present generation seems to consider comfort the first aim of
existence, though the trouble they take to insure it more than
counterbalances the results in old-fashioned judgment.

Stephen stopped to light his cigar behind the shelter of a tree, and
then came running after Deena, who was walking slowly toward the vast
plain of blue water stretching to the east. She turned at the sound of
his footsteps and waited for him, wondering what his classes would
think if they could see their professor bounding along with his hat
under his arm. There was something peculiarly charming in the lighter
side of Stephen's nature; a simplicity and boyishness, which was the
secret of his popularity far more than his weightier qualities. The
women of Harmouth called him handsome, but he had small claims to
beauty. A well set-up figure rather above the medium height, dark hair
grizzled at the temples, eyes that se