The last echo died away, the violin rattled into its case, the piano was closed. The musicians went home, and there was a general movement toward the doors. A far clock chimed twelve and she rose wearily from her chair. "Good night," she faltered, her hand fluttering toward his; "I cannot say good-bye, but we must never see each other again."
How it happened they never knew, but he took her into his arms, unresisting, and kissed her fully, passionately, upon the lips.
All the joy and pain of the world seemed crowded into the instant they stood there, locked in each other's arms. Then the high, bird-like voice of the lady from Memphis broke on their ears in a grating staccato.
"She was out here, when I saw her last, flirting dreadfully with the war correspondent. I guess she didn't know you were coming on that late train."
Eagerly, happily, the Other Man rushed out on the balcony, crying boyishly, "Mabel! Are you here?"
The words died on his lips. The man who held her in his arms kissed her again, slowly, hungrily; then reluctantly released her. She steadied herself against the railing of the balcony. In the moonlight her face was ghastly. The scent of the orange blossoms seemed overpowering her with deadly fragrance.
"Didn't I tell you?" asked the lady from Memphis gleefully. From the open window she was enjoying the situation to the full.
The Other Man was bewildered.
"Mabel," he said enquiringly, "I don't quite understand. Didn't you get my wire?"
The war correspondent stepped forward. He had faced the guns of the enemy before and was not afraid now. A single commanding glance, mingled with scorn, sent the lady from Memphis scurrying back into the palm-room.