ht and still, the soft, fluffy material with which her wrap
was edged drawn close about her throat. I shifted to the opposite
seat, for my nerves warned me that I could not long control myself, if
I stayed on where her garments were touching me.

I looked away from her for the pleasure of looking at her again, of
realizing that my overwrought senses were not cheating me. Yes, there
she was, in all the luster of that magnetic beauty I cannot think of
even now without an up-blazing of the fire which is to the heart what
the sun is to the eyes of a blind man dreaming of sight. There she was
on my side of the chasm that had separated us--alone with
me--mine--mine! And my heart dilated with pride. But a moment later
came a sense of humility. Her beauty intoxicated me, but her youth,
her fineness, so fragile for such rough hands as mine, awed and
humbled me. "I must be very gentle," said I to myself. "I have
promised that she shall never regret. God help me to keep my promise!
She is mine, but only to preserve and protect." And that idea of
_responsibility in possession_ was new to me--was to have far-reaching
consequences. Now I think it changed the whole course of my life.

She was leaning forward, her elbow on the casement of the open window
of the brougham, her cheek against her hand; the moonlight was
glistening on her round, firm forearm and on her serious face. "How
far, far away from--everything it seems here!" she said, her voice
tuned to that soft, clear light, "and how beautiful it is!" Then,
addressing the moon and the shadows of the trees rather than me: "I
wish I could go on and on--and never return to--to the world."

"I wish we could," said I.

My tone was low, but she started, drew back into the brougham, became
an outline in the deep shadow. In another mood that might have angered
me. Just then it hurt me so deeply that to remember it to-day is to
feel a faint ache in the scar of the long healed wound. My face was
not hidden as was hers; so, perhaps, she saw. At any rate, her voice
tried to be friendly as she said: "Well--I have crossed the Rubicon.
And I don't regret. It was silly of me to cry. I thought I had been
through so much that I was beyond such weakness. But you will find me
calm from now on, and reasonable."

"Not too reasonable, please," said I, with an attempt at her
lightness. "A reasonable woman is as trying as an unreasonable man."

"But we are going to be sensible with each other," she