I faced Mildred's pouts with the hope that she and her mother would not wait dinner for me. I fled. In another minute I was safe, alone, under the chill, cloudy autumn sky—free to think, think, think of my dear lady.
I walked for hours along streets and squares; I lived over again and again every look, word, and hand-touch—every kiss; I was completely, unspeakably happy.
Mildred was utterly forgotten: my lady of the ebony frame filled my heart and soul and spirit.
As I heard eleven boom through the fog, I turned, and went home.
When I got to my street, I found a crowd surging through it, a strong red light filling the air.
A house was on fire. Mine.
I elbowed my way through the crowd.
The picture of my lady—that, at least, I could save!
As I sprang up the steps, I saw, as in a dream—yes, all this was really dream-like—I saw Mildred leaning out of the first-floor window, wringing her hands.
"Come back, sir," cried a fireman; "we'll get the young lady out right enough."