He reached for the paper bag in Honoria's lap, took out one of the square, wrapped confections and slowly unrolled it.
"Sara Chillingworth's father," said Honoria, "has given her an automobile."
"Read that," said Ives, handing over the slip that had been wrapped around the square of candy.
"Life teaches us—how to live,
Love teaches us—to forgive."
"Life teaches us—how to live,
Love teaches us—to forgive."
Honoria's checks turned pink.
"Honoria!" cried Ives, starting up from his chair.
"Miss Clinton," corrected Honoria, rising like Venus from the bead on the surf. "I warned you not to speak that name again."'
"Honoria," repeated Ives, "you must hear me. I know I do not deserve your forgiveness, but I must have it. There is a madness that possesses one sometimes for which his better nature is not responsible. I throw everything else but you to the winds. I strike off the chains that have bound me. I renounce the siren that lured me from you. Let the bought verse of that street peddler plead for me. It is you only whom I can love. Let your love forgive, and I swear to you that mine will be true 'as long as skies above are blue.'"
On the west side, between Sixth and Seventh Avenues, an alley cuts the block in the middle. It perishes in a little court in the centre of the block. The district is theatrical; the inhabitants, the bubbling froth of half a dozen nations. The atmosphere is Bohemian, the language polyglot, the locality precarious.