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thought I'd go mad if I didn't get it. Now I know what it was that I wanted always, Yvonne. It was you" . . .

She said nothing; only pressed a little tighter against him in token that she heard, and was glad in hearing. Presently he spoke again:

"I like to think of you in places where you'll probably never be. In a splendid palace, on a throne carved out of jewels. Or barefooted on a tropical beach with flowers around your hair . . . that hair! If I werea painter I'd want to paint you sitting on a rock, combing it with a golden comb, like the Lorelei." He paused, speculating. "Not so bad to have the girl you loved an actress, would it be? Because then you might see her in some of the costumes and against some of the backgrounds you like to imagine for her. Do you know, Yvonne, I've thought several times you're probably an actress."

"Why? What makes you think that?"

"It's logical. Somebody'd surely capitalize on beauty like that." He chuckled, in amusement and perfect content. "Just imagine loving anybody as I love you, and not knowing one thing about them except that they're the only person in the world!"

"Shall I tell you now, then?"

"I don't give a damn if you never tell me! No, tell me something else. Tell me—" He laughed into her laughing eyes. "You little witch, you know doggone well what I want to hear——"

She obeyed, soft-voiced and instantly grave. "I love you."

And his heart echoed it, and found it overwhelming. "She loves me. Me. All that loveliness, for me." . . . Before the thought he bowed his head as before a thing divine, and kissed her hands, and whispered,