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 at him compensated for the cruelty of the sentence.

“You are a dear,” she said.

Never had he known life to sing so sweetly. Suddenly the world had grown full of a sincere and ineffable charm. Summer was humming without, and his blood was full of its luxuriance and its joy. The real woman had come into his life at last and filled to the brim his cup of destiny. He would drink deeply of it, too—drink to the last dregs.

“Andromeda,” he said; “and now?”

He had not spoken for some time, but she had been steadily watching him through half-closed lids, so that she was almost prepared for the sudden interruption.

“Well, what now?”

She met his gaze frankly, sincerely. There was no apparent effort at either composure or indifference, no suspicion of lingering doubt, uncertainty or regret.

“What are we going to do?”

“My dear Perseus, have I not warned you that I abhor prosaic details? Why seek to render such a friendship commonplace?”

“But, my dear girl!”