utterly."

She gazed at him wonderingly--the puzzled wonder of a child.
"You--love--me?" she said slowly.

"Call it what you like. I am mad about you. I have forgotten
everything--pride--position--things you can't imagine--and I care for
nothing but you."

And again he was kissing her with the soft fury of fire; and again she
was submitting with the passive, dazed expression that seemed to add to
his passion. To make her feel! To make her respond! He, whom so many
women had loved--women of position, of fame for beauty, of social
distinction or distinction as singers, players--women of society and
women of talent all kinds of worth-while women--they had cared, had run
after him, had given freely all he had asked and more. And this
girl--nobody at all--she had nothing for him.

He held her away from him, cried angrily: "What is the matter with you?
What is the matter with me?"

"I don't understand," she said. "I wish you wouldn't kiss me so much."

He released her, laughed satirically. "Oh--you are playing a game. I
might have known."

"I don't understand," said she. "A while ago you said you loved me. Now
you act as if you didn't like me at all." And she smiled gayly at him,
pouting her lips a little. Once more her beauty was shining. It made his
nerves quiver to see the color in her pure white skin where he had