"Who was he, dear?"
"Yu Lao. It's Chinese—and remote—lost in mystery eternal—where the white soul of her abides who went forth 'between tall avenues of spears, to die.' And that is where all things go at last, Jim—even the world and the moon and stars—all things—even love—returning to the source of all."
His arm had fallen around her waist. Presently, in the dusk, he felt her cool, fresh hand seeking for his, drawing his arm imperceptibly closer.
In the unlighted music room Cynthia's piano was silent.
Presently Jacqueline's cheek touched his, rested against it.
"I never knew I could feel so safe," she murmured. "I am—absolutely—contented."
"Do you love me?"
"Yes."
"You have no fear of me now?"