And though Christine did not make any audible answer, he thought her blush sufficient; besides, she took the lilies from her throat and gave them to him.

Such a dream of love is given only to the few whom the gods favor.  Franz must have stood high in their grace, for it lasted through many sweet weeks and months for him.  He followed the Strombergs to Newport, and laid his whole life down at Christine’s feet.  There was no definite engagement between them, but every one understood that would come as surely as the end of the season.

Money matters and housekeeping must eventually intrude themselves, but the romance and charm of this one summer of life should be untouched.  And Franz was not anxious at all on this score.  His father, a shrewd business man, had early seen that his son was a poet and a dreamer.  “It is not the boy’s fault,” he said to his partner, “he gets it from his grandfather, who was always more out of this world than in it.”

So he wisely allowed Franz to follow his natural tastes, and contented himself with carefully investing his fortune in such real estate and securities as he believed would insure a safe, if a slow increase.  He had bought wisely, and Franz’s income was a certain and handsome one, with a tendency rather to increase than decrease, and quite sufficient to maintain Christine in all the luxury to which she had been accustomed.

So when he returned to the city he intended to speak to Mr. Stromberg.  All he had should be Christine’s and her father should settle the matter just as he thought best for his daughter.  In a general way this was understood by all parties, and everyone seemed inclined to sympathize with the happy feeling which led the lovers to deprecate during these enchanted days any allusion which tended to dispel the exquisite charm of their young lives’ idyl.

Perhaps it would have been better if they had remembered the ancient superstition and themselves done something to mar their perfect happiness.  Polycrates offered his ring to avert the calamity sure to follow unmitigated pleasure or success, and Franz ought, perhaps, to have also made an effort to propitiate his envious Fate.

But he did not, and toward the very end of the season, when the October days had thrown a kind of still melancholy over the world that had been so green and gay, Franz’s dream was rudely broken—­broken by a Mr. James Barker Clarke, a blustering, vulgar man of fifty, worth three millions.  In some way or other he seemed to have a great deal of influence over Mr. Stromberg, who paid him unqualified respect, and over Mrs. Stromberg, who seemed to fear him.

Mr. Stromberg’s “private ledger” alone knew the whole secret; for of course money was at the foundation.  Indeed, in these days, in all public and private troubles, it is proper to ask, not “Who is she?” but “How much is it?” Franz Mueller and James Barker Clarke hated each other on sight.  Still Franz had no idea at first that this ugly, uncouth man could ever be a rival to his own handsome person and passionate affection.