lifted, and he spoke softly, caressingly, words that made the rose in her
cheeks burn deeper and her voice tremble in its low response. Always
keener in his chase of money than of women, his cold blood was warmed and
he permitted himself to grow tender, safe in the thought that this would
be their last dinner.

At seven she had to go, frankly reluctant, making no pretense to hide
her disinclination. She rose and went to where her coat lay over a
chair, but he was before her, and snatching it up held it spread for her
enveloping. With her arms outstretched she slid into it, then felt him
suddenly clasp her. Weakened, like a body from which the strength has
fled, she drooped against him, her head fallen back on his shoulder. He
leaned his cheek against hers, rubbing it softly, then bending lower
till he found her lips.

Out of his arms she steadied herself with a hand on the mantelpiece, the
room blurred, no breath left her for speech. For a moment the place was
noiseless save for the small, friendly sounds of the fire. Then she asked
the woman's eternal question,

"Do you love me?"

"What do you think?" he said, surprised to hear his voice shaken
and husky.

"Oh, Boye," she cried and turned on him, clasping her hands against her
heart, a figure of tragic intensity, "is it true? Do you mean it?"

He nodded, silent because he was not sure of what to say.