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           ROSALIND:Metoo—I—I—oh,to-night’sto-night.

           (Herbrotherstrollsin,startsandtheninaloudvoicesays:"Oh,excuseme,"andgoes.)

           ROSALIND:(Herlipsscarcelystirring)Don’tletmego—Idon’tcarewhoknowswhatIdo.

           AMORY:Sayit!

           ROSALIND:Iloveyou—now.(Theypart.)Oh—Iamveryyouthful,thankGod—andratherbeautiful,thankGod—andhappy,thankGod,thankGod—(Shepausesandthen,inanoddburstofprophecy,adds)PoorAmory!

           (Hekissesheragain.)

           KISMET

           WithintwoweeksAmoryandRosalindweredeeplyandpassionatelyinlove.Thecriticalqualitieswhichhadspoiledforeachofthemadozenromancesweredulledbythegreatwaveofemotionthatwashedoverthem.

           "Itmaybeaninsanelove-affair,"shetoldheranxiousmother,"butit’snotinane."

           ThewavesweptAmoryintoanadvertisingagencyearlyinMarch,wherehealternatedbetweenastonishingburstsofratherexceptionalworkandwilddreamsofbecomingsuddenlyrichandtouringItalywithRosalind.

           Theyweretogetherconstantly,forlunch,fordinner,andnearlyeveryevening—alwaysinasortofbreathlesshush,asiftheyfearedthatanyminutethespellwouldbreakanddropthemoutofthisparadiseofroseandflame.Butthespellbecameatrance,seemedtoincreasefromdaytoday;theybegantotalkofmarryinginJuly—inJune.