“Oh, sure!” said Wilfred, grinning like a man on the rack. “That’s just the clumsy English language!” . . . Why can’t we speak out! he cried to himself; I love her so! “Well, having got thus far,” said Elaine with a sprightly air that was almost more than he could bear; “having recognized that one is the victim of an infatuation, how is one to set about curing oneself?” Wilfred shook his head helplessly. “What! has the doctor no remedy to offer?” “Leave it to time,” he murmured. “That might work in the case of an elastic nature,” said Elaine. “One of those natures that snaps easily in and out of entanglements. But there’s another kind; stubborn.” Wilfred could not speak. Something inside him was pressing up, and he could not force it back. It was stopping his throat; he struggled for breath. . . . “Anyhow,” said Elaine, raising her chin, “I don’t admit your absolutes of love and infatuation. What’s the difference between them? It’s all in the point of view. It’s not the object that matters, but the feeling!” The constriction within Wilfred suddenly broke. He heard with a feeling of surprise, a low, shaken voice issuing from between his lips. “Oh, Elaine! you couldn’t! He’s rotten! I am not quick to discover evil in people. But this man is altogether evil. . . . Never mind about his life. I expect he’s told you; he always does. What he’s done doesn’t matter. It is what he is! Your nature is clear and open; you _must_ feel it . . . !” Elaine after a quick glance of astonishment, listened with curving lips. “Of whom are you speaking?” she asked. “You know,” he said, suddenly dashed. There it was out! He need not have been so terrified, because Elaine was equal to the situation. She shrugged. “Oh well, it’s no secret that Joe and I are pals. I should hardly come to you for a testimonial of his character.” Her remote glance, full of pain, assured him that her inner self was listening to his words. It enabled him to bear her scorn. “Worse than positive evil,” he said. “It’s a sort of ghastly sterility. He’s a monster! He cannot feel anything.” “Oh, I assure you, you are wrong about that,” said Elaine with her tormented and contemptuous smile. “Lust,” he said very low, not able to look at her then. “Well?” she said simply. Wilfred was struck dumb by that query. Why not lust? Well . . . why not . . . ?