was a faint smile on her lips--breathed as it
were from him. He huddled into his corner, hurt by her compassion.

"I hate to see the moon," she said, "cynical and prying--an eavesdropper
of a moon."

Again a light gave him a fleeting vision of her--photographed on to his
soul.

Her deep dark eyes, heavy with distress, the corners of her mouth
repudiating the misery of the moment. She put her hand on his arm.

"Don't," she said, "there is in life such an incoherent mass of
interwoven strands. And perhaps something comes and tears them all to
bits."

Her voice was chanting--as if she were singing him a lullaby--then it
became light again.

"Wait till the next lamp," she said. "And you will see in my eyes the
old laughter that you used to love."

They turned down a side street and there were no more lights.

Abruptly the taxi stopped.

She got out. Her pale gold coat was a continuation of the moon.

She turned her brooding eyes away from him.

"Thank you for taking me home," she said; her voice had broken. She
looked back--a smile turned on to her lips.

He heard her latch key. The door opened and shut.

XV

A TOUCH OF SPRING

[_To W.Y. TURNER_]

The sun was streaming through the curtains silhouetting a strange
bloated pattern on the chintz, breaking through an opening and cutting a
deep yellow slit in the carpet. She lay in bed subconsciously awake,
subconsciously asleep, her thoughts drifting into dreams, her limbs
merging into one another. "This is happiness," she murmured to herself,
and feeling consciousness invade her, she clutched at the perfect
moment, and it was gone.

Smiling at her defeat she stretched herself luxuriously like a cat and
poked her toes out into a cool expanse of sheet.

"It is nice," she thought, "to have the whole bed to myself."

She curled herself up and lay for a few moments watching the sun
catching little patches of air and turning them into rainbow dust. Then
she rang. Her maid let in such a flood of light that she was forced to
shade her eyes. An unabashed cuckoo broke into the chorus of birds,
glorying in being a solo part and despising them for mixing and
intertwining their notes.

She got out of bed and her bare feet sank into the warm furry rug;
without putting on her slippers she walked across the room, stepping
like a child into the puddles of sunshine on the carpet. Leaning out of
the window the air pierced through her transparent nightgown--a ti