“Don’t think that I am foolish, dear,” she begged.  “To-night I cannot look upon the river at all.  I feel that there is something new here—­here in this room.  The great things are here, Arnold.  I can feel life hammering and throbbing in the air.  We aren’t in a garret any longer, dear.  It’s a fairy palace.  Listen.  Can’t you hear the people shout, and the music, and the fountains playing?  Can’t you see the dusky walls fall back, the marble pillars, the lights in the ceiling?”

He turned his head.  He found himself, indeed, listening, found himself almost disappointed to hear nothing but the far-off, eternal roar of the city, and the melancholy grinding of a hurdy-gurdy below.  Always she carried him away by her intense earnestness, the bewitching softness of her voice, even when it was galleons full of treasure that she saw, with blood-red sails, coming up the river, full of treasure for them.  To-night her voice had more than its share of inspiration, her fancies clung to her feverishly.

“Be careful, Arnold,” she murmured.  “To-night means a change.  There is something new coming.  I can feel it coming in my heart.”

Her face was drawn and pale.  He laughed down into her eyes.

“Little lady,” he reminded her, mockingly, “I am going to dine with my cheesemonger employer.”

She shook her head dreamily.  She refused to be dragged down.

“There’s something beating in the air,” she continued.  “It came into the room with you.  Don’t you feel it?  Can’t you feel that you are going to a tragedy?  Life is going to be different, Arnold, to be different always.”

He drew himself up.  A flicker of passion flamed in his own deep gray eyes.

“Different, child?  Of course it’s going to be different.  If there weren’t something else in front, do you think one could live?  Do you think one could be content to struggle through this miserable quagmire if one didn’t believe that there was something else on the other side of the hill?”

She sighed, and her fingers touched his.

“I forgot,” she said simply.  “You see, there was a time when I hadn’t you.  You lifted me out of my quagmire.”

“Not high enough, dear,” he answered, caressingly.  “Some day I’ll take you over to Berlin or Vienna, or one of those wonderful places.  We’ll leave Isaac to grub along and sow red fire in Hyde Park.  We’ll find the doctors.  We shall teach you to walk again without that stick.  No more gloominess, please.”

She pressed his hand tightly.

“Dear Arnold!” she whispered softly.

“Turn around and watch the river with me, little one,” he begged.  “See the lights on the barges, how slowly they move.  What is there behind that one, I wonder?”

Her eyes followed his finger without enthusiasm.

“I can’t look out of the room to-night, Arnold,” she said.  “The fancies won’t come.  Promise me one thing.”