The singing--and the dancing--on one or two seem to have met
with approval."
Ives did not wince. When you are in the ring you are not surprised
when your adversary taps you on the ribs.
"I followed the candy man that time," said Ives, irrelevantly, "and
gave him five dollars at the corner of Broadway."
He reached for the paper bag in Honoria's lap, took out one of the
square, wrapped confections and slowly unrolled it.
"Sara Chillingworth's father," said Honoria, "has given her an
automobile."
"Read that," said Ives, handing over the slip that had been wrapped
around the square of candy.
"Life teaches us--how to live,
Love teaches us--to forgive."
Honoria's checks turned pink.
"Honoria!" cried Ives, starting up from his chair.
"Miss Clinton," corrected Honoria, rising like Venus from the bead
on the surf. "I warned you not to speak that name again."'
"Honoria," repeated Ives, "you must hear me. I know I do not
deserve your forgiveness, but I must have it. There is a madness
that possesses one sometimes for which his better nature is not
responsible. I throw everything else but you to the winds. I strike
off the chains that have bound me. I renounce the siren that lured me
from you. Let the bought verse of that street peddler plead for me.
It is you only whom I can love. Let your love forgive, and I swear to
you that mine will be true 'as long as skies above are blue.'"
On the west side, between Sixth and Seventh Avenues, an alley cuts
the block in the middle.
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