standing beside him, poised lightly, like a bird. Roger drew in a deep breath of the moonlight-burdened air. So did Sheilah. They didn't speak. They didn't stir, but each heard the other breathe, and suddenly the beauty of the moonlight (or was it the beauty of each other's nearness?) and the realization that the minutes were narrowing to seconds became too much to bear. Roger reached out his hand, met Sheilah's, and drew her unresisting to him. She was conscious of his arms about her, and as she sank against him, of a feeling of solidity and safety.
He held her carefully, tenderly, as he had her trusting eyes a little while ago. His coat felt rough and strange against her cheek. She closed her eyes an instant. She could hear a low, deep, muffled thudding, slow and strong and steady. Suddenly Roger was aware of a motion of submission. His heart leaped, and he leaned, searching. But she pushed against him at that. 'Trust me,' he whispered. And she did! He placed his lips long and gently on the edge of the wine-cup, but he did not drink.
All the next day, rattling down over the dusty roads in the little car beside Felix, Sheilah lived over and over again her last five minutes alone with Roger—her last half-minute. She wasn't sorry. She regretted nothing. He hadn't kissed her. If her
