In the room adjoining, his friends were proposing a toast over the Christmas punch bowl. The Chemist's voice floated in through the doorway.
"To the Oroids—happiness to them." Then for an instant there was silence as they drank the toast.
Aura met the Very Young Man's eyes and smiled a little wanly. "Happiness—to them! I wonder. We who are so happy to-night—I wonder, are they?"
The Very Young Man leaned towards her. "You are happy, Aura?"
The girl nodded, still staring wistfully into the fire.
"I want you to be," the Very Young Man added simply, and fell silent.
A blazing log in the fire twisted and rolled to one side; the crackling flames leaped higher, bathing the girl's drooping little figure in their golden light.
The Very Young Man after a time found himself murmuring familiar lines of poetry. His memory leaped back. A boat sailing over a silent summer lake—underneath the stars—the warmth of a girl's soft little body touching his—her hair, twisted about his fingers—the thrill in his heart; he felt it now as his lips formed the words:
"The stars would be your pearls upon a string,
The world a ruby for your finger-ring,
And you could have the sun and moon to wear,
If I were king."
"You remember, Aura, that night in the boat?"