of her hair. Adrian
took his place silently beside her and leaned out. The air was very
soft and hot and embracing, and up here it was very quiet, as if one
floated above the lower clouds of perpetual sound.

Cecil spoke at last. "It's lovely, isn't it?" she said. "I should
have come to find you, but I couldn't. These first warm nights! You
really understand why people live, after all, don't you? It's like a
pulse coming back to a hand you love." She was silent a moment.
"Kiss me," she said, finally. "I--I'm so glad I love you, and we're
young."

He stooped down and put his arms about her. He could feel her tremble.
How fragrant she was, and queer, and mysterious, even if he had
lived with her now for almost fifteen years! He was infinitely glad
at the moment for his entire life. He kissed her again, kissed her
eyes, and she went down the stairs with him to the hall-door. She
was to stop for him at his uncle's, after a dinner to which she was
going.

Adrian lit a cigarette and walked instead of taking the elevator. It
was appropriate to his mood that on the second floor some one with a
golden Italian voice should be singing "Louise." He paused for a
moment. He was reminded of a night long ago in Verona, when there
had been an open window and moonlight in the street. Then he looked
at his watch. He was late; he would have to hurry. It amused him
that at his age he should still fear the silent rebuke with which
his uncle punished unpunctuality.

He arrived at his destination as a near-by church clock struck the
half-hour. The new butler admitted him and led him back to where his
uncle was sitting by an open window; the curtains stirred in the
languid breeze, the suave room was a little penetrated by the night,
as if some sly, disorderly spirit was investigating uninvited. It
was far too hot for the wood fire--that part of the formula had been
omitted, but otherwise each detail was the same. "The two hundredth
time!" Adrian thought to himself. "The two hundredth time, at least!
It will go on forever!" And then the formula was altered again, for
his uncle got to his feet, laying aside the evening paper with his
usual precise care. "My dear fellow," he began, "so good of you! On
the minute, too! I----" and then he stumbled and put out his hand.
"My glasses!" he said.

Adrian caught him and held him upright. He swayed a little.
"I----Lately I have had to use them sometimes, even when not reading,"
he murmured. "Thank