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 down the hall. "Compose yourself and wait, my dear."

Jock thought how strange it was that when you were not in love you could say quite charming things, and then when you were in love, and needed them, they were gone, and only the most utter banalities came to your lips. He could think of nothing now except, "God has already made you beautiful," or "Why gild the lily?"—and these he would not say, and loathed while he thought them for their hackneyed insufficiency.

He sat down on the piano bench to wait; then on second thought moved across to the black velvet divan in front of the fireplace. He had a greater sense of Yvonne's nearness there. Mental associations. . . . He was excited. The moments just preceding a meeting with her were always exciting. You could never tell what her mood would be, and so you had an inward fluttering anticipation comparable to the childhood thrill of a grab-bag at a fair. You didn't know just what you might draw, but you knew that whatever it was you were sure to enjoy it. He said to himself, "In a minute now. In just a minute she'll come in that door—so wonderful—and I'll kiss her"

This thought made him feel a trifle dizzy, a bit gone inside. He had kissed Yvonne many times now, but the miracle of it seemed never to lessen. It was like holding all the things in the world that were lovely and precious and rare inside the little oval of your arms. A "world-is-mine" emotion it gave you. Her body was so softly pliant, and her lips could send a sort of lightening through the veins.

Footsteps tapped along the hall and he leaped up—then sat down again. It was only the maid. She bore a great flat package wrapped loosely in paper