(Myra was really wonderful tonight.  He had not known her voice could have so much color in it; and the white flower in her hair—­a cape-jessamine, its excessively sweet fragrance told him—­gave her pale beauty the touch of romance it had always lacked).  The poetic eyes that looked into hers mellowed, the cynical voice softened: 

“Don’t you Myra?  Well, you’d better cultivate it.  Its the fashion, and it’s the only feeling I’m worth.”

“Eddie,” she said earnestly—­tenderly, “I want you to promise me that you won’t talk that way any more—­at least not to me—­it hurts me.”

Her hand, on his sleeve, was as fair as a petal from the jessamine flower in her hair.  He took it gently in his.

“Dear little Myra, little playmate—­” he said.  “You are my friend, I know, and have been since we were mere babies, in spite of knowing, as you do, what a naughty, idle, disobedient boy I’ve been, deserving every flogging and scolding I’ve gotten and utterly unworthy all the good things that have come my way—­including your dear friendship.”

“You are breaking your promise already,” she said.  “You shall not run yourself down to me.  I think you are the nicest boy in town!”

There was nothing complex about Myra.  Her mind was an open book, and he suddenly found he liked it so—­liked it tremendously.  Her unveiled avowal of preference for him was most soothing to his restless, dissatisfied mood.

“Thank you, Myra,” he said tenderly, kissing the flower-petal hand before he laid it down.  He had a strong impulse to kiss her, but resisted it, with an effort, and abruptly changed the subject.

“Did you know that we are going to move?” he asked.  “And that I’m going to the University next winter?”

“To move?” she questioned, aghast.  “Where?”

“To the Gallego mansion, at Fifth and Main Streets.  Mr. Allan has bought it.  The dear little mother, who, I’d say, if you’d let me, is so much better to me than I deserve, is full of plans for furnishing it and is going to fit up a beautiful room in it for me.  It will be a delightful home for us, and quite grand after our modest cottage, but do you know I’m goose enough to be homesick at the thought of giving up my little den under the roof?  Myself and I have had such jolly times together in it!”

She had scarcely heard him, except the first words and the stunning facts they contained.  There was a minute’s silence, then she spoke in a changed, quivering voice.

“Then that will be the end of our friendship, I suspect!  When you get out of the neighborhood, and are off most of the time at the University, we will doubtless see little more of you.”

Her clear blue eyes were shining up at him through tears.  Her mouth was tremulous as a distressed child’s.  The appeal met an instant response from the tender-hearted poet. Both the flower-like hands were captured this time, and held fast, in spite of their fluttering.  The excessively sweet fragrance of the blossom in her hair was in his nostrils.  Her quick, short breaths told him of the tempest in her tender young bosom.