between Harboro and Sylvia. Quite impartially he
bestowed a flashing smile upon both the man and the woman. And Harboro
began vaguely to understand. Runyon was popular, not because he was a
particularly good fellow, but because he was so supremely cheerful. And he
seemed entirely harmless, despite the glamour of him. After all, he was
not a mere male coquette. He was in love with the world, with life.

Wayne was reproaching him for not having come sooner. He should have been
there for the beginning, he said.

And Runyon's response was characteristic enough, perhaps: "Everything is
always beginning."

There was gay laughter at this, though the meaning of it must have been
obscure to all save Sylvia. The words sounded like a song to her. It was a
song she had wished to sing herself. But she was reflecting, despite her
joy in the saying: "No, everything is always ending."

Runyon was borne away like a conqueror. He mingled with this group and
that. His presence was like a stimulant. His musical voice penetrated
everywhere; his laughter arose now and again. He did not look back toward
Sylvia. She had the strange feeling that even yet they had not met--they
had not met, yet had known each other always. He ignored her, she felt, as
one ignores the best friend, the oldest associate, on the ground that no
explanations are necessary, no misunderstanding possible.

Harboro sat down beside Sylvia. When he spoke there was a note of easy
raillery in his voice. "They're getting him to sing," he said, and Sylvia,
bringing her thoughts back from immeasurable distances, realized that the
dancing space had been cleared, and that the musicians had stopped playing
and were engaged in a low-spoken conference with Runyon. He nodded toward
them approvingly and then stepped out into the open, a little distance
from them.

The very sky listened; the desert became dumb. The orchestra played a
prelude and then Runyon began to sing. The words came clear and resonant:

"By the blue Alsatian mountains
Dwelt a maiden young and fair...."

Runyon sang marvellously. Although he was accustomed to the confines of
drawing-rooms with low ceilings, he seemed quite at home on this earthen
floor of the desert, with the moon sinking regretfully beyond the top of
the stockade. He was perfectly at ease. His hands hung so naturally by his
sides that they seemed invisible.

"But the blue Alsatian mo