"You are superb," Eugenia had said, half insolently, looking up at him as he stood in the firelight. "How odd that I never noticed it before."
"You are looking at yourself in my eyes," he returned gallantly.
She shook her head.
"There are so many women who like handsome men, it's a pity you can't fall in love with one," she said coldly.
"Am I to infer that you prefer ugly men?" he questioned.
"I—oh! I am too good-looking to care," she replied.
She sprang up suddenly and stood beside him. "We do look well together," she said with grave audacity.
He laughed. "I am flattered. It may weigh with you in your future plans. Come, Eugie, let me love you!"
But her mood changed and she dragged him with her out into the autumn fields.
In the last days of November a long rain came—a ruinous autumnal rain that beat the white roads into livid streams of mud and sent the sad dead leaves in shapeless tatters to the earth. The glory of the fall had brought back the glory of her love; its death revived the agony of the long decay.