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117 which looked flat enough to have been webbed, and was scented as to his marital locks with a far-reaching pestilence of bergamot and cinnamon.

After they were gone I strolled back to my arbor and sat down amid the ruins of Sylvia's flowers. The nigh was mystically beautiful. The moon seemed to me to be softly stealing down the sky to kiss Endymion. I looked across towards Georgiana’s window. She was there, and I slipped over and stood under it.

“Georgiana,” I whispered, “were you, too, looking at the moon?”

“Part of the time,” she said, sourly. “Isn’t it permitted?”

“Sylvia left her scissors in the arbor, and I can’t find them.”

“She’ll find them to-morrow.”

“If they get wet, you know, they’ll rust.”

“I keep something to take rust off.”