for my book page, only you’d have to come to New York and work hard, and there wouldn’t be very much salary. Can you work?” 

 “Anyone can.” 

 “Well, will you?” 

 “Indeed I will.” (It was a vow.) “And now I must go. I have to drive myself home in an open car, and the tourists do stare at one so—in fancy dress.” 

 “Yes, but when am I to see you again? I leave Newport to-night.” 

 “Telephone me—2079—and we’ll arrange to do something this afternoon.” 

 “And whom shall I ask for?” 

 “Telephone at two-fifteen to the minute, and I’ll answer the telephone myself.” 

 She evidently rather enjoyed the mystery of their not knowing each other’s names. But a black idea occurred to Ben. She had slid off the raft and swum a few strokes before he shouted to her: 

 “Look here. Your name isn’t Eugenia, is it?” 

 She waved her hand. “No, I’m Crystal,” she called back. 

 “Good-by, Crystal.” 

 This time she did not wave, but, swimming on her side with long, easy strokes, she gave him a sweet, reassuring look. 

 After she had gone he lay down on the raft with his face buried in his arms. A few moments before he had thought he could never see enough of the sunrise and the sea, but now he wanted to shut it out in favor of a much finer spectacle within him. So this was love. Strange that no one had ever been able to prepare you for it. Strange that poets had never been able to give you a hint of its stupendous inevitability. He wondered if all miracles were like that—so simple—so— 

 Suddenly he heard her voice near him. He lifted his head from his arms. She was there in the water below him, clinging to the raft with one hand. 

 “I just came back to tell you something,” she said. “I thought you ought to know it before things went any farther.” 

 He thought, “Good God! she’s in love with some one else!” and the horror of the idea made him look at her severely. 

 

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