Athalie

She looked up at him very quietly, but still flushed.

"Why do you wish me to try--make any effort to develop this--thing?"

"So that--if you could see him again--and if, perhaps, he had

anything to say to me--"

"I understand."

"Will you try, Athalie?"

"I'll try--if you wish it. And if I can learn how to try."

Had he asked her to strip her gown from her shoulders under his steady

gaze, it had been easier than the promise she gave him.

* * * * *

And now the hour had come for him to bid her good-bye. He said that he

and his mother would not remain abroad for more than the summer. He

said he would write often; spoke a little more vaguely of seeing her

as soon as he returned; drew her cool, white hands together and kissed

them, laid his cheek against them for a moment, eyes closed wearily.

The door remained ajar behind him after he had gone. Lingering, her

hand heavy on the knob, she listened to the last echo of the elevator

as it dropped into lighted depths below.

Then, very far away, an iron grille clanged. And that ended it.

But she still lingered. There was one more shape to pass through the

door which she yet held open;--the phantom of her girlhood. And when

at last, it had passed across the threshold, never to return, she

shut the door softly, sinking to her knees there, her pale cheek

resting against the closed panels, her eyes fixed on vacancy.

* * * * *

So departed those twain out of the room and out of her life,

together--her lover by brevet, and her lingering girlhood,--leaving

behind them a woman in a world of men suddenly strange and menacing

and very still.

But Clive went back into a familiar world--marred, obscured, distorted

for the moment by shock and sorrow--but still a familiar world.

Because neither his grief nor his love--as he had termed it--had made

of him more than he had been,--not yet a man, yet no longer a boy, but

something with all the infirmities of both and the saving graces of

neither.

In that borderland where he still lingered, morally and spiritually,

the development of character ceases for a while until such time as the

occult frontier be crossed. What is born in the cradle is lowered into

the grave, but always either in nobler or less noble degrees. For none

may linger in that borderland too long because the unseen boundary

moves for him who will not stir when his time is up--moves slowly,

inexorably nearer, nearer, passing beneath his feet, until it is lost

far in the misty years behind him.