"I don't think I really liked Olga's face-powder on your coat, dear."
He was silent.

"I knew you didn't love her.  You couldn't.  She wasn't your sort."

More silence.

"You didn't care for her, did you?" jerkily.

He looked down into her eyes tenderly but made no reply.  She sighed
but asked no more questions.  And, when he knew that she understood the
meaning of his silence, he took her head between his hands and made her
look at him.

"Isn't it enough for me to say to you that I love you better than all
the world, dear, that I am yours--wholly and indivisibly--my past, my
future--"

"Oh, I am content," she whispered quickly.  "Your past--shall be what
you have made it.  I'm not afraid.  But your future--"

She caught one of his hands in both of her own and held it to her
heart.  "That is mine."

There was a silence rich with meaning.  The stream, the whispering
boughs, the rising breeze in the tree-tops joined in the soft chorus of
their nuptial-song.  The night fell, shrouded in mystery.  Behind them
over their shoulders a new moon rose, a harbinger of good fortune, but
they did not turn to look at it.  It could not foretell them a fortune
that was already theirs.  Its light flowed through the shadows, paling
the silhouette of the leaves against the afterglow, bathing them both
in liquid silver.  He told her many of the things that she already
knew, but each reiteration had a new meaning and a new delight.  The
same immortal questions and answers, ever new, ever mystifying.  The
touch of hands, of eyes, the physical contact, outward tokens of the
spiritual pact made already, the welding of the bonds which were to
make them one!  The moments of their more intimate confessions past, he
told her of the friendship of Mrs. Hammond and what she had done to set
the story right, but she did not seem to hear him.  Her gaze was upon
the pale rim of light along the hill-top beyond, a gaze which looked
and saw nothing beyond the rosy aura of her thoughts.

"What does it matter now?" she murmured.  "What does anything
matter--after this?"

"You will marry me--soon?" he urged her.

She sighed softly and laid her hand in his.

"Whenever you want me to," she said, with eloquent simplicity.

"To-morrow?"

She smiled mischievously.

"I must, I think, Philidor.  Would you have me compromised?"

He laughed happily.

"Yes.  Compromised by reverence, pilloried by tenderness--"

"Not reverence, Philidor.  I'm only a little devil, after all."

"Then devils are angels in Vagabondia.  Your wings are white, Hermia."

"They're trailing now--"

"Brave wings--fluttering--weary of flight.  They shall fly no more--"

"Not alone--broader ones shall bear them company."

A pause.

"After to-morrow--shall we go?"

"Afoot, Philidor--as before."

And then.  "Poor Clarissa!"

He laughed.  "You shall have her."

She started up in delight.

"You mean that you--?"

"Clarissa is languishing in a stable in Paris>"

She spoke of Cleofonte and the Signora.

"We must find them, too, Philidor.  And Stella--I promised her.  We
must do something for Stella."

It was growing late.  There was a sound in the thicket behind them.
They started up and were confronted by the _ancien_, who hobbled toward
them, with his stick and lantern, like _Diogenes_ searching for an
honest man.

"God be praised!" he croaked.  "You are here.  We feared you might have
fallen among the rocks."

"Among the roses, Pre GuŽgou.  _Thy_ roses--" said
Yvonne, her hand in Philidor's.

The old man stared at them witlessly, then turned and lighted them upon
their way.

The End