had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth.

“Well, thank you so much,” she repeated, “How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!”

“I don't.”

Anxiety moved her to question him.

His answer was puzzling: “I shall probably want to live.”

“But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?”

“I shall want to live, I say.”

Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears.