rrific speed. He wanted to scuttle away like a scared rabbit. The pace
of the kangaroo would be slow in comparison. What a record he could make
if he hadn't promised not to.

He crossed his knees the other way and brooded. The gray squirrel
climbed the bench and nosed his pockets for possible peanuts, then
hopped off hopefully toward a distant nursemaid and two children.

Growing more alarmed every time he consulted his watch Carden attempted
to stem his rising panic with logic and philosophy, repeating: "Steady!
my son! Don't act like this! You're not obliged to marry her if you
don't fall in love with her; and if you do, you won't mind marrying her.
That is philosophy. That is logic. Oh, I wonder what will have happened
to me by this time to-morrow! I wish it _were_ this time to-morrow! I
wish it were this time next month! Then it would be all over. Then it
would be--"

His muttering speech froze on his lips. Rooted to his bench he sat
staring at a distant figure approaching--the figure of a young girl in a
summer gown.

Nearer, nearer she came, walking with a free-limbed, graceful step, head
high, one arm clasping a book.

That was the way the girls he drew would have walked had they ever
lived. Even in the midst of his fright his artist's eyes noted that:
noted the perfect figure, too, and the witchery of its grace and
contour, and the fascinating poise of her head, and the splendid color
of her hair; noted mechanically the flowing lines of her gown, and the
dainty modeling of arm and wrist and throat and ear.

Then, as she reached her bench and seated herself, she raised her eyes
and looked at him. And for the first time in his life he realized that
ideal beauty was but the pale phantom of the real and founded on
something more than imagination and thought; on something of vaster
import than fancy and taste and technical skill; that it was founded on
Life itself--on breathing, living, palpitating, tremulous Life!--from
which all true inspiration must come.

Over and over to himself he was repeating: "Of course, it is perfectly
impossible that I can be in love already. Love doesn't happen between
two ticks of a watch. I am merely amazed at that girl's beauty; that is
all. I am merely astounded in the presence of perfection; that is all.
There is nothing more serious the matter with me. It isn't necessary for
me to continue to look at her; it isn't vital to my happiness if I never
saw her again. . . . That is