seen you in evening dress before to-night, Paul,' she said.
'I like you in evening dress. It is a great test of a man's distinction.
It is cruel to all but the few. It is distinctly not cruel to you.'

'I am proud to be approved of,' he answered, trying to speak lightly.

The grave serving-man brought in the wine, which proved worthy of the
hostess's praise. Paul was grateful for it, for it helped to steady his
shaken nerve. He felt pretty much as he imagined a man might feel who
was learning to stand under fire.

'It was kind of you,' he said, 'to give me this one hour to myself. I
shall try to learn my lesson in it I want to assure you how much I have
laid your injunction to heart, and to promise you that from this time
forth you shall be implicitly obeyed. When I wrote that wild letter to
you at Venders I had not the faintest hope of your forgiveness. I need
not tell you how I thank you for it, how I shall strive to show my
gratitude. But, indeed, you are my Anthea, Gertrude, and may command me
anything.'

'Another man would not have found forgiveness, Paul,' she answered,
turning away her head, and looking downward. 'I do not deny to you now
that I was deeply amazed, and, at first, humiliated. Then for a time
I was angry, and I had to ask myself of what indiscretion I had been
guilty to lay me open to the receipt of such a letter from my dearest
friend. But we women are weak creatures where the affections are
concerned, and I felt that I could not afford to lose you, Paul. You
will not make it necessary for me to lose you?'

'No,' he declared. 'No spoken word of mine shall hurt you. God knows
what you have been to me since first I met you.' She raised her hand
against him and looked up with a glance of appeal. 'Oh, surely I may say
this!' he urged. 'I have been through dark days, Gertrude. I am young,
and reputation and fortune are calling to me, and I have put a millstone
about my neck, and but for your friendship I should have broken my
heart.'

'Paul,' she said, 'my poor boy! My poor, dear boy! I think I would give
my life if I could comfort you.'

'You do comfort me,' he answered. 'You are the one comfort I have. I
shall learn in time to think of you as if you were a saint in heaven.'

'Oh!' she purred, 'you dear, simple-souled enthusiast! Don't you know
yet--haven't you found it out, that simple truth?--that when a man has
relegated a living woman to the position of a saint in heaven he has
ceased to c