t
hand had wrought such havoc upon him to be seen dancing with him
was sufficiently startling to elicit the universal
remark--evidently considered superlative--that it was "just like
Cora Madison!" Cora usually perceived, with an admirably clear
head, all that went on about her; and she was conscious of
increasing the sensation, when after a few turns round the room,
she allowed her partner to conduct her to a secluding grove of
palms in the gallery. She sank into the chair he offered, and,
fixing her eyes upon a small lamp of coloured glass which hung
overhead, ostentatiously looked bored.

"At your feet, Cora," he said, seating himself upon a stool, and
leaning toward her. "Isn't it appropriate that we should talk to
music--we two? It shouldn't be that quick step though--not
dance-music--should it?"

"Don't know 'm sure," murmured Cora.

"You were kind to dance with me," he said huskily. "I dared to
speak to you----"

She did not change her attitude nor the direction of her glance.
"I couldn't cut you very well with the whole town looking on. I'm
tired of being talked about. Besides, I don't care much who I
dance with--so he doesn't step on me."

"Cora," he said, "it is the prelude to `L'Arlesienne' that they
should play for you and me. Yes, I think it should be that."

"Never heard of it."

"It's just a rustic tragedy, the story of a boy in the south of
France who lets love become his whole life, and then--it kills
him."

"Sounds very stupid," she commented languidly.

"People do sometimes die of love, even nowadays," he said,
tremulously--"in the South."

She let her eyes drift indifferently to him and perceived that he
was trembling from head to foot; that his hands and knees shook
piteously; that his lips quivered and twitched; and, at sight of
this agitation, an expression of strong distaste came to her face.

"I see." Her eyes returned to the lamp. "You're from the South,
and of course it's going to kill you."

"You didn't speak the exact words you had in your mind.'"

"Oh, what words did I have `in my mind'?" she asked impatiently.

"What you really meant was: `If it does kill you, what of it?'"

She laughed, and sighed as for release.

"Cora," he said huskily, "I understand you a little because you
possess me. I've never--literally never--had another thought since
the first time I saw you: nothing but you. I think of
you--actually every moment. Drunk or sober, asleep or--awake, it's
not