So she didn't say what she was going to say--that it would be perhaps better for them both if he practiced on her an artistic absence now and then.

Younger in years, she was more mature than he.

She knew.

But she was too much in love with him to salt their ambrosia with common sense or suggest economy in their use of the nectar bottle.
However, the gods attend to that, and she knew they would, and she let them.

So one balmy evening late in May, when the new moon's ghost floated through the upper haze, and the golden Diana above Manhattan turned flame color, and the electric lights began to glimmer along Fifth Avenue, and the first faint scent of the young summer freshened the foliage in square and park, Kerns, stopping at the club for a moment, found Gatewood seated at the same window they both were wont to haunt in earlier and more flippant days.
"Are you dining here ?" inquired Kerns, pushing the electric button with enthusiasm.