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during the remainder of the day they could not break through or see each other as clearly as before. Margaret talked frivolously, or seriously, rallied, jested with him. He struggled to keep up with her, to take his tone from hers, to be natural. But both of them were acutely aware of failure, of artificiality. The walk, the dinner, the short evening failed to better the situation. When they bade each other good-night he made one more effort.

"You find it impossible to forgive me?"

"There is nothing I would not forgive you. That's the essential difference between us," she answered lightly.

"There is no essential difference; don't say it."

"The day has been something of a failure, don't you think? But then so was the day when you cut yourself shaving." She maintained the flippant tone. "That came right. Perhaps tomorrow when we meet we shall find each other wholly adorable again." She would not be serious, was light, frivolous to the last. "Good-night. Don't paint devils, don't see ghosts. Tomorrow everything may be as before. Kiss me good-night. Sleep well!" He kissed her, hesitated, kept her in the shelter of his arms:

"Margaret. . ." She freed herself:

"No. I know that tone. It means more ques-