"You're not getting--bored, are you, Blanche? After all, the actress
sees the seamiest side of town; you won't mind leaving it? I know I'm
offering you a very different life from what you're used to, but"--with
a shade of the decisiveness that had always attracted her to him--"it
will be much better for you. No late hours, no more of the
sandwiches-at-odd-times game. We shall be very happy, just us two, even
if we don't know people. People!" he cried scornfully, a wave of passion
breaking over him as he caught her to him. "What do we want with other
people?"

Pressing her almost roughly against him, he bent her head back into the
curve of his arm and kissed her fiercely. She lay passive, deliberately
taking all he gave and thrilling to it. Self-pity surged over her; she
had been so happy--not only happy, but so much better! It was very hard,
she felt, as she trembled with pleasure under his kisses. She shrank
from giving pain, but she shrank still more from lowering herself in his
eyes, and the situation needed all her skill. Disengaging herself from
his arms, she faced him with what she felt to be a brave little smile.

"Ishmael! My poor boy; Ishmael!" she said.

He was suddenly very grave, but waited silently.

Still, he said nothing, and she took his hand in hers and spoke very
gently.

"Ishmael, dear one! listen to me. You must see that it's impossible,
that it would never do."

He did see it, her very certainty showed him plainly enough; but still