“How could I hurt you so!  I’m going because I must; because I daren’t stay.  You can understand, Ban!”

The music died.  “Yes,” said Banneker.  Then, “Don’t go, Io!”

“I must.  I’ll—­I’ll see you before.  When we’re ourselves.  We can’t talk now.  Not with this terrible music in our blood.”

She rose and went forward to thank the player with such a light in her eyes and such a fervor in her words that he mentally added another to his list of conquests.

The party broke up.  After that magic music, people wanted to be out of the light and the stir; to carry its pure passion forth into the dark places, to cherish and dream it over again....  Banneker sat before the broad fireplace in the laxity of a still grief.  Io was going away from him.  For a six-month.  For a year.  For an eternity.  Going away from him, bearing his whole heart with her, as she had left him after the night on the river, left him to the searing memory of that mad, sweet cleavage of her lips to his, the passionate offer of her awakened womanhood in uttermost surrender of life at the roaring gates of death....

Footsteps, light, firm, unhesitant, approached across the broad floor from the hallway.  Banneker sat rigid, incredulous, afraid to stir, as the sleeper fears to break the spell of a tenuous and lovely dream, until Io’s voice spoke his name.  He would have jumped to his feet, but the strong pressure of her hands on his shoulders restrained him.

“No.  Stay as you are.”

“I thought you had gone,” he said thickly.

A great log toppled in the fireplace, showering its sparks in prodigal display.

“Do you remember our fire, on the river-bank?” said the voice of the girl, Io, across the years.

“While I live.”

“Just you and I. Man and woman.  Alone in the world.  Sometimes I think it has always been so with us.”

“We have no world of our own, Io,” he said sadly.

“Heresy, Ban; heresy!  Of course we have.  An inner world.  If we could forget—­everything outside.”

“I am not good at forgetting.”

He felt her fingers, languid and tremulous, at his throat, her heart’s strong throb against his shoulder as she bent, the sweet breath of her whisper stirring the hair at his temple: 

“Try, Ban.”

Her mouth closed down upon his, flower-sweet, petal-light, and was withdrawn.  She leaned back, gazing at him from half-closed, inscrutable eyes.

“That’s for good-bye, Io?” With all his self-control, he could not keep his voice steady.

“There have been too many good-byes between us,” she murmured.

He lifted his head, attentive to a stir at the door, which immediately passed.

“I thought that was Archie, come after you.”

“Archie isn’t coming.”

“Then I’ll send for the car and take you home.”

“Won’t you understand, Ban?  I’m not going home.”