She looked at him a moment, her hands still resting on his shoulders, and suddenly threw back her head, laughing deliciously: "Did you ever before take part in such a ridiculous conversation?" she demanded. "Oh, but I have always adored theoretical conversations. Only give me an interesting subject and take one end of it and I'll gratefully grasp the other, Clive. What an odd man you are; and I suppose I'm odd, too. And we may yet live to inhabit an odd little house together.... Wouldn't the world tear me to tatters!... I wonder if I'd dare--even knowing I was all right!"... The laughter died in her eyes; a swift tenderness melted them: "I do care for you so truly, Clive! I can't bear to think of ever again living without you.... You know it isn't silliness or love or anything except what I've always felt for you--loyalty and devotion, endless, eternal. And that is all there is or ever will be in my heart and mind." So clear and sweet and confident in his understanding were her eyes that the quick emotion that leaped responsive left only a ruddy trace on his face and a slight quiver on his lips. He said: "Nothing shall ever threaten your trust in me. No man can ask for more than you give, Athalie." "I give you all I am. What more is there?" "I ask no more." "Is there more to wish for? Are you really satisfied, Clive?" "Perfectly;"--but he looked away from her. "And you don't imagine that you love me, do you?" "No,"--still looking away from her. "Meet my eyes, and say it." "I--" "Clive!" "There is no--" "Clive, obey me!" So he turned and looked her in the eyes. And after a moment's silence she laughed, uncertainly, almost nervously. "You--you _do_ imagine it!" she said. "Don't you?" He made no reply. Presently she began to laugh again, a gay, tormenting, excited little laugh. Something in his face seemed to exhilarate her, sending the blood like wine to her cheeks. "You _do_ imagine it! Oh, Clive! _You!_ You think yourself in love with your old comrade!... I _knew_ it! There was something about you--I can't explain exactly what--but there was _something_ that told me." She was laughing, now, almost wickedly and with all the naive and innocently malicious delight of a child delighting in its fellow's torment. "Oh, Clive!" she said, "what are you going to do about it? And why do you gaze at me so oddly?--as though I were angry or disconcerted. I'm not. I'm happy. I'm crazy about this new relation of ours. It makes you more interesting than I ever dreamed even you could be--" "You know," he said almost grimly, "if you are going to take it like this--" "Take what?" "The knowledge that--" "That you are in love with me? Then you _are_! Oh, Clive, Clive! You dear, sweet, funny boy! And you've told me so, haven't you? Or it amounts to that; doesn't it?" "Yes; I love you." She leaned swiftly toward him, sparkling, flushed, radiant, tender: