Julia Page, an unnoticed little neighbour for many years, had, just at present, somewhat ruffled the surface of his dream.  Julia was not the ideal wife of his mind or heart; nor was she apt to grow to fill that ideal.  Mrs. Mark Rosenthal must be a Jewess, a wise, ripened, poised, and low-voiced woman, a lover of music, babies, gardens, cooking, and managing.

Yet there had been a certain evening, not long before that spring evening upon which Julia’s own awakening came, when Mark had been astonished to find a sudden charm in the little girl.  She was only a little girl, of course, he said to himself later; just a kid, but she was a mighty cunning kid!

Julia often had dinner with the Rosenthals; she loved every separate member of the family and she knew they all loved her.  She used to run upstairs and pop her pretty head into the Rosenthal kitchen perhaps twice a week, sure of a welcome and a good meal.  On the occasion so significant to Mark she had been there when he got in from work, helping his sisters Sophy and Hannah with that careless disposition of iron knives, great china sugar bowl, oddly assorted plates, and thick cups that was known as “setting the table.”

Mark had noticed then that Julia’s figure was getting very pretty, and he watched her coming and going with a real pleasure.  She sat next him at table, and, conscious as he was of her nearness and of himself, he found her unconsciousness very charming.  Julia had burned her arm serving the fried hominy, and she held it up for Mark to see, the bare, sweet young arm close to his face.

And since then, poor Mark seemed to be bewitched.  He could not think of anything but Julia.  It made him angry and self-contemptuous, but he was no better off for that.  He did not want to fall in love with Julia Page; he would not admit that what he felt for Julia was love; he raged with disappointment at the mere thought of bondage so soon, and especially this bondage.  But the sweetness of her stole upon his senses nevertheless, tangling about him like a drifting bit of vaporous mist; he had no sooner detached one section of it than another blew across his eyes, set pulses to beating in his temples, and shook his whole body with a delicious weakness.

And then came the night when she had not kept her appointment, and he had followed her to the Alcazar Theatre, and later kissed her in the dark hallway.  Then Mark knew.  From the instant her fresh lips touched his, and he felt the soft yielding as he drew her to him, Mark knew that he was of the world’s lovers.  He wanted her with all the deep passion of first love—­first love in an ardent and romantic and forceful nature.  His dreams did not change; Julia changed to fit them.  She was everything for which he had ever longed, she was perfection absolute.  She became his music, his business, his life.  Every little girl, every old woman that he passed in the street, made him think of Julia, and when he passed a young man and woman full of concern for, and of shy pride in, their lumpy baby in its embroidered coat, a wave of divine envy swept Mark from head to foot.