“I don’t like to write letters.  Mine to Mary were scarcely more than notes.  Ask her.  Are you satisfied now?  Am I a sphinx—­a conundrum—­any longer?”

“No; and at last I am more than content that you are not little Madge.”

“Why, this is famous, as Dr. Sommers says.  When was a man ever known to change his mind before?”

“I’ve changed mine so often of late that I’m fairly dizzy.  You are setting me straight at last.”

Madge laughed outright, and after a moment said, “Now account for yourself.  What places did you visit abroad?”

He began to tell her, and she to ask questions that surprised him, showing that she had some idea of even the topography and color of the region, and a better knowledge of the history and antiquities than himself.  At last he expressed his wonder.  “What nonsense!” she exclaimed.  “You don’t remember the little I did write you.  As I said before, did you not at my request—­very kindly and liberally, too, Graydon—­send me books about the places you expected to see?  A child could have read them and so have gained the information that surprises you.”

They talked on, one thing leading to another, until he had a conscious glow of mental excitement.  She knew so much that he knew, only in a different way, and her thoughts came rippling forth in piquant, musical words.  Her eyes were so often full of laughter that he saw that she was happy, and he remembered after their return that she had not said an ill-natured word about any one.  It was another of their old-time, breezy talks, only larger, fuller, complete with her rich womanhood.  He found himself alive in every fibre of his body and faculty of his mind.

As they turned homeward the evening shadows were gathering, and at last the dusky twilight passed into a soft radiance under the rays of the full-orbed moon.

“Oh, don’t let us hasten home,” pleaded poor Madge, who felt that this might be her only chance to throw about him the gossamer threads which would draw the cord and cable that could bind him to her.  “What is supper to the witchery of such a night as this?”

“What would anything be to the witchery of such a girl as this, if one were not fortified?” he thought.  “This is not the comradeship of a good fellow, as she promised.  It is the society of a charming woman, who is feminine in even her thoughts and modes of expression—­who is often strangely, bewilderingly beautiful in this changing light.  When we pass under the shadow of a tree her eyes shine like stars; when the rays of the moon are full upon her face it is almost as pure and white as when it was illumined by the electric flash.  Did I not love another woman, I could easily imagine myself learning to love her.  Confound it!  I wish Stella had more of Madge’s simple loftiness of character.  She would compel different business methods in her father.  She would work for him, suffer for him, but would not play diplomat.  I like that Arnault business to-night less than ever.”