him a friendly smile.

“And there is where your home is?”

“What the war left of it—two wings of a cochina house and an unbroken view of desolation. But it was home.”

“Now you are talking sensibly. Home! That’s always worth talking about. Let’s quit the foolish love business.”

“And yet, it is love that makes the home.”

“True. But think of a home where the wife was won, a stranger, by a stranger, on the street.”

“That is strongly put. I had not thought of it that way.”

“Better now than too late.”

“The answer is, in my case, that you are not a stranger. Outside of every man’s life there is a woman standing—just outside, her radiance across his path. He is always conscious of her there, but he cannot see her. He finds himself striving because of her; ambitious, because of her. Then one day she steps in and he recognizes her. And because of her he keeps his soul clean and face to the sunrise. Some call her the Ideal. But I know her as the woman God made for me. Now you understand what I meant when I said I had waited for you all my life.”

“What a beautiful thought!”

“It’s not my fault I met you on the street.”

“Perhaps it may not always be, on the street.”

“You mean you will let me come to see you some day?”

“I am not suggesting that.”

“Then, you never will?”

“I have not said so.” He relapsed into moody silence.

“Listen,” she said, at length, picking up the loose end. “You are not altogether a stranger either.” Again that swift, half mocking, upward smile. “Outside of every girl’s life there is a man standing—just outside, his shadow across her path. She is always conscious of him there; she knows him as the man God made for her, but she cannot see him. Then, one day, he steps in and she recognizes him.”

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