gree of everybody. There is no tongue in this world sharp enough to hurt me. I'll go to her, and say—and say—I won't have to say anything. She knows, and I know.
"Oh, you Phylis! . . ." he said.
"I can see her coming up to me, so tall and straight and beautiful and everything—music playing—everybody craning necks to look at her—the men eating their hearts out with envy. 'Who taketh this woman!' 'That do I, Tomas Beauling, for ever and ever, God bless her, Amen.' 'Who is this woman?' 'She is the woman that everybody has been wanting ever since the beginning of the world, and will go on wanting till the end of the world, and afterward. But Tomas Beauling has got her, and she is going to belong to him for ever and ever and afterward! Oh, you Phylis! . . .'"
Beauling looked at his watch.
"If I hurry," he said, "perhaps I can get a moment with her before dinner, and—"
He arose, faced the glass, and began
