dawn, though revealing nothing but monotones, was part of the eternal sunrise that shows George Borrow Stonehenge.
"Then you don't think I was foolish?" he asked, becoming again the naive and sweet-tempered boy for whom Nature had intended him.
"Heavens, no!" replied Margaret.
"Heaven help us if we do!" replied Helen.
"I'm very glad you say that. Now, my wife would never understand—not if I explained for days."
"No, it wasn't foolish!" cried Helen, her eyes aflame. "You've pushed back the boundaries; I think it splendid of you."
"You've not been content to dream as we have—"
"Though we have walked, too—"
"I must show you a picture upstairs—"
Here the door-bell rang. The hansom had come to take them to their evening party.
"Oh, bother, not to say dash— I had forgotten we were dining out; but do, do, come round again and have a talk."
"Yes, you must—do," echoed Margaret.
Leonard, with extreme sentiment, replied: "No, I shall not. It's better like this."
"Why better?" asked Margaret.
"No, it is better not to risk a second interview. I shall always look back on this talk with you as one of the finest things in my life. Really. I mean this. We can never repeat. It has done me real good, and there we had better leave it."
"That's rather a sad view of life, surely."
"Things so often get spoiled."
"I know," flashed Helen, "but people don't."
He could not understand this. He continued in a vein which mingled true imagination and false. What he said wasn't wrong, but it wasn't right, and a false note jarred. One little twist, they felt, and the instrument might be in tune. One little strain, and it might be silent for ever. He thanked the ladies very much, but
