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112 When he turned back again, he saw that she had left the couch and was standing on the threshold of the open door, a blotch of filmy, gauzy white.

She was gone before he could rush to her side. When he tried to cross the threshold, to run after her, he felt again the wings, and the feeling brought with it a sense of ineffable sweetness and peace, which enveloped his subconscious self in a rush of blind delight.

It was Captain Donaldson of his regiment who startled him out of his sleep early the next morning.

"Hurry up, old man!" he said. "The transport sails this afternoon instead of to-morrow."

Roger Kenyon tumbled out of bed and walked over to the desk where he had dropped the rose the night before.

"What are you looking for?" asked his friend. "A cigarette? Here—have one of mine!"

"No, no. I thought I had left a rose here last night—a scarlet Gloire de Dijon rose; but—"

"Gallant adventure, eh?" laughed Donaldson. "Say, you must have been drinking! Why, this isn't a rose—it's a white lily!"

He picked up the stiff, sweet-scented flower.