\" He panted, wiping sweat off of his brow with a towel. “Who can tell?” she said. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. A wide terrace then led to large iron gates,' over which were placed the two celebrated figures of Raving and Melancholy Madness, executed by the elder Cibber, and commemorated by Pope in the Dunciad, in the wellknown lines:— "Close to those walls where Folly holds her throne, And laughs to think Monroe would take her down, Where, o'er the gates, by his famed father's hand, Great Cibber's brazen, brainless brothers stand. ” He took up his hat. Of you—an angel with one wing. “I knew that you waited at the farmhouse. She took a shower after a particularly harsh volleyball debacle only to find that her locker had been picked and her outfit of the day, gray sweatpants and a shapeless pink sweater, were gone. “I am going to ignore it. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. She met his eye for a moment in curious surprise. We went our ways. “You are coming in, aren’t you, Sydney?” “If I may,” he answered. He would know her address to-morrow.
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