HE stood with bowed shoulders, twisting lips; and, after a momentary pause, she fled from the room. Cold waves of self-hatred flowed over him—he had taken a despicable advantage of her grief. The pleasant fabric of the past, unthinking days, the new materialism with its comfortable freedom from restraint, crumbled from an old, old skeleton whose moldering lines spelled the death of all—his heart knew—that was high, desirable, immaculate. He wondered if, like Rufus Hardinge, his understanding had come too late. But, in the re-surge of his adoration for Eliza, infinitely more beautiful and serene from the pit out of which he sped his vision, he was possessed by the conviction that nothing created nor void should extinguish the bright flame of his passion, hold them separate.

In the midst of his turmoil he recalled Eliza with relief, with delight, with tumultuous longing. He soared on the wings of his ecstasy; but descended abruptly to the practical necessities which confronted him. He must leave the Hardinges immediately; with a swift touch of the humorous spirit native to him, he realized that again he would be without money. Then more seriously he considered his coming interview with Annot.

The house was charged with the vague unrest, the strange aspect of familiar things, wrought by serious illness. Luncheon was disorganized, Annot was late. She was pale, but, under an obvious concern, she radiated a suppressed content. She laid a letter before Anthony. “Registered,” she told him. “I signed.” It was, he saw, from his father, and he slipped it into his pocket, intent upon the explanation which lay before him. It would be more difficult even than he had anticipated: Annot spoke of the near prospect of a Mediterranean trip, if Rufus Hardinge rallied sufficiently. “He is as contented and gentle as a nice old lady,” she reported; then, with a subtle expansion of manner, “it will be such fun—I shall take you by the hand, 'This, my good infant, is one of Virgil's final resting places....'”

“That would be splendid,” he acknowledged, “but I'm afraid that I sha'n't be able to go. The fact is that—that I had better leave you. I can't take your money for... for....”

She glanced at him swiftly, under the shadow of a frown, then shook her head at him. “That tiresome money again! It's a strange thing for you to insist on; material considerations are ordinarily as far as possible from your thoughts. I forbid you absolutely to mention it again; every time you do I shall punish you—I shall present you with a humiliating gold piece in person.”

“I should be all kinds of a trimmer to take advantage of your goodness. No, I must go—” The gay warmth evaporated from her countenance as abruptly as though it had been congealed in a sudden icy breath; she sat motionless, upright, enveloping him in the bright resentment of her gaze.

“And I must ask you to forgive me for... for this morning,” he stumbled hastily on.

The resentment burned into a clear flame of angry contempt. “'For this morning!' because I kissed you?”

He made a vehement gesture of denial. “Oh, no!” But she would not allow him to finish. “But I did,” she announced in a hard, determined voice. “It isn't necessary for you to be polite; I don't care a damn for that sickening sort of thing. I did, and you are properly and modestly retreating. I believe that you think I am—'designing,' isn't that the word? that you might have to marry me. A kiss, I am to realize, is something sacred. Bah! you make me ill, like almost everything else in life.

“If you think for a minute that it was anything more than the expression of a passing impulse you are beyond words. And, if it had been more, you—you violet, I wouldn't marry you; I wouldn't marry any man, ever! ever! ever! I might have gone to Italy with you, but probably come home with some one else—will that get into your pretty prejudices?”

“If you had gone to Italy with me,” he declared sullenly, “you would never have come home with anybody else.”

“That sort of thing has been dismissed to the smaller rural towns and the cheap melodramas; it's no longer considered elevated to talk like that, but only pitiful. You will start next on 'God's noblest creation,' and purity, and the females of your family. Don't you know, haven't you been told, that the primitive religious rubbish about marriage has been laughed out of existence? Did you dream that I wanted to keep you? or that I would allow you to keep me after the thing had got stale? It makes me cold all over to be so frightfully misunderstood. Oh, its unthinkable! Fi, to kiss you! wasn't it loose of me?”

Her contemptuous periods stung him in a thousand minute places. “I told you,” he retorted hotly, “that I wanted to make money; I don't want it given to me; it's for my wedding.”

“Of course, how stupid of me not to have guessed—the lips sacred to her,” her own trembled ever so slightly, but her scornful attitude, her direct, bright gaze, were maintained, “A knight errant adventuring for a village queen with her handkerchief in his sleeve and tempted by the inevitable Kundry.”

He settled himself to weathering this feminine storm; he owed her all the relief to be found in words. “I wanted the money to go West,” he particularized further. “There's a position waiting for me—”

“It's all very chaste,” she told him, “but terribly commonplace. I think that I don't care to hear the details.” She addressed herself to what remained of the luncheon. “Have some more sauce,” she advised coolly, then rang. “The pudding, Jane,” she directed.

“You have been wonderfully kind—” he began. But she halted him abruptly. “We'll drop all that,” she pronounced, and deliberately lit a cigarette.

A genuine admiration for her possessed Anthony; he recognized that she was extraordinarily good to look at; he had had no idea that so vigorous a spirit could have burned behind a becoming dress by Paret. He realized with a faint regret, eminently masculine, that other men, men of moment, would find her irresistibly attractive. Already it seemed incredible that she had ever been familiar, intimate, tender, with him.

“You will be wanting to leave,” she said, rising; “—whenever you like. I have written for a—a chauffeur. I think you should have, it's twenty-five dollars, isn't it?”

“Not twenty-five cents,” he returned.

“I shouldn't like to force your delicate sensibilities.” She left the room. He caught a last glimpse of her firm, young profile; her shining, coppery hair; her supple, upright carriage.