one with a rose, and that supreme touch of satire, the shelves of colored glass across the windows, shutting out the view."
"You're a very penetrating person. Most people take that room perfectly seriously."
"And you let them, and laugh at them behind their backs. Christabel, you're a little devil!"
Christabel! He called me Christabel! First, Mrs. Carey. Then, for a long time, you. Now, at last, Christabel.
Nick! Nick!
And she suddenly flung out her arms, she cried, her voice enchanting in its sincerity: "I can hardly bear it! I can't bear it! I'm so happy!"
"Why?"
She couldn't say, because you called me Christabel. And although the breeze, bringing a drift of fragrance, the tender grass, a quivering butterfly, had a lot to do with it when she came to think, those were not the things she and Nick talked about together in their clear-
