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 needle-point chairs invited to it; even the pictures took on new meanings. When they had entered this amorous bower two days earlier, passing through the Viennese room, Zimbule had frowned at the Metzinger. It no longer seemed suitable. It was more in the mood of the interior decorator than her own. She had tried, on this initial evening, with Desdemona's and Harold's assistance, to turn its face to the wall. They had not been suc cessful, but their united efforts finally dislodged the wire from the hook and the great canvas in its massive frame crashed to the floor, smashing the frame and shivering the glass. There it had lain ever since, for Zimbule was superstitious regarding an incident that had happened immediately after the entrance of the new master, and she refused to have it removed. But they had scarcely gone into the Viennese room since.

Harold was very happy, happier, he realized, than he had ever been before. An aureole of happiness seemed to radiate about his head. They had talked very little together. They had eaten, they had slept, they had kissed. . . . With her lips upon his, his conscience died. He felt secure in this new happiness; never had he felt secure before. He was even a little proud of himself. . . . Love! So this was love, the love that he had avoided, fled from, rejected.

The days had been so saturated with this novel feeling that all that had happened before seemed a