figure in the sailor hat and trim shirtwaist—­of the Gabriella who had said, “I can manage my life”—­there remained only an outline.  The very feet of the capable woman had changed into the shrinking and timid feet of a lovesick girl.  She was afraid to go forward, afraid to move, afraid to breathe lest she break the wonderful spell of the magic.  Not only her basic common sense, but the very soul that shaped her body had become as light, as sweet, as formless as liquid honey.

But of course, she knew nothing of this.  She was innocent of deception; she was innocent even of any definite purpose to allure.  The thought in her mind, if there were any thought, which is doubtful, was that she must be composed, she must be indifferent if it killed her.

“I know I’ve come at an awkward hour, but I simply couldn’t go by after I saw you.”

“Won’t you stay?” she asked, trying in vain to shut out the ominous sound of Marthy bringing their scant supper.  She remembered, with horror, that she had ordered only two chops, and a wave of rebellion swept over her because life always spoiled its divine instants.

“No, I can’t stay.  I’ve an engagement for supper.  I merely wanted to see you.  You’ve no idea how I’ve wanted to see you.”

“Have you?” said Gabriella in so low a voice that he hardly heard her.  Then, lifting her glowing eyes, she added softly, “I am glad that you wanted to.”

“There were times when I simply couldn’t get you out of my mind,” he responded, and went on almost joyously, with the romantic look which had first enchanted her imagination.  “You see I believed that you were going to marry Arthur Peyton.  Julia told me that your engagement was broken.  That was why I came back.  Didn’t you guess it?”

“Yes, I guessed it,” she answered simply, and all the softness, the sweetness, the beauty of her feeling passed into her voice.

Then, in the very midst of her happiness, there occurred one of those sordid facts which appear to spring, like vultures, upon the ineffable moments.  She heard the bell—­the awful supper bell which her mother insisted upon having rung because her parents had had it rung for generations before her.  As the horrible sound reverberated through the house, Gabriella felt that the noise passed through her ears, not into her brain, but into the very depths of her suffering soul.

“There, I must go,” said George, without embarrassment, for which she blessed him.  From his manner, the supper bell might have made a delightful harmony instead of a hideous discord.  “I’ll see you to-morrow, if I may.  May I, Gabriella?”

He smiled charmingly as he went, and looking after him, a minute later, over the clove pinks in the window-box, she saw him turn and gaze back at her from the opposite pavement.

CHAPTER IV

MIRAGE

On a bright Sunday in October Mrs. Carr stopped on her way from church to tell Mrs. Peyton of Gabriella’s engagement.  A crape veil, slightly scented with camphor, hung from her bonnet, and in her gloved hands she carried a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums, for she intended to go on to Hollywood, where her husband was buried.  The sermon had been unusually inspiring, and there was a pensive exaltation in her look as she laid her hand on the gate of the walled garden.