One day she said to him, and it was in a tone that was very careful: "You wrote The Tempest, didn't you?" She had guessed his secret, although the book had been published anonymously—and he had always been guarded as to its author, so he replied somewhat awkwardly that he had.
"I felt it—was sure when I began reading," she said. "Because there is something in it about you that you never tell—in conversation, but you did in the book."
He was silent, for he knew not what to say at that moment. She resumed:
"Yes; and it is that which makes the book so interesting—and so sad." She fell silent then for a time, apparently engrossed in deep thought, but with worried and sad expression.
There were other times she had appeared sad; times when he felt she could have been happy and cheerful and gay. And that to him was ever a mystery. He wished he could help her out of that way—at any time.... Some day he would, too. He was firm in this....
Then came the time when he was to leave, and he passed her way that day. From across the street she saw him, and came at once with hands outstretched; but when he made known the fact of his proposed departure, she was downcast, and sorrowful and sad.
"I'm so sorry," she said—and meant it. He was too, and said nothing.
"I shall miss you—oh, ever so much."
"I will you, too," he whispered. She looked up quickly, but what she saw in his eyes made her as quickly turn away. They entered the house and the parlor where it was dark for day-time, and sat together for a long while in silence. Presently, from the next house came the notes of a piano, and some one sang Sweet Genevieve. O, subtle art! It made them both feel sad. Impulsively he arose and caught her in his arms, when the music had changed to The Blue Danube. Around then, and around they waltzed, light-footed to the sweet old tune. And as they danced, both seemed to become strangely infected with a wild exhilaration. Entranced, he unconsciously sought her eyes with an awakening passion, and saw that she had been transformed by the music, and perhaps the dance, into a wild, elfin-like creature, and he looked away.
Minutes went by like seconds and, after a time, he dared seek her eyes again, only to see that she had grown more elfin still. And, as abruptly as it had begun, the music stopped, and their dance ceased. They stood, however, as though forgetting the embrace, and thus heard each others hearts thump violently. One moment they stood thus, and then a breath of wind through the open window, lifted a stray lock of her hair and laid it against his cheek. He was intoxicated by its effect, and then suddenly he had lost all composure. He crushed her to him, close, closer, and, in bold defiance of all conventionality, he kissed her lips—once, twice, three times! She was not angry, but struggled, nevertheless, to be free. She heard his voice then, low, strained, palpitating, and with soul on fire: "Mildred!" Again he cried, "Mildred! O, my Mildred!" She swayed helplessly. "I——", but she got no further. He had caught sight of her eyes, helpless; but with a weak appeal, as her lips faltered: