when he came too near that radiant loveliness which was Ettarre's—that perfect beauty which was so full of troubling reticences, and so, was touched with something sinister—the dream would end, and the universe would seem to fold about him, just as a hand closes. Such was the law, the kindly law, as Kennaston now believed, through which love might thrive even in the arid heart of a poet.
Sometimes, however, this law would lead to odd results, and left the dream an enigma. For instance, he had a quaint experience upon the night of that day during which he had talked with Muriel Allardyce. . . .
"You are in all things a fortunate man, Master—ah—whatever your true name may be," said the boy, pettishly flinging down the cards.
"Ods life, and have we done?" says Kennaston. . . .
The two sat in a comfortable paneled room. There was a big open fire behind Kennaston; he could see its reflections flicker about the wood-*work. The boy facing him was glowingly attired
