"You dear boy! I'm not really laughing at you. I'm laughing--I don't know why: happiness--excitement--pride--I don't know.... Do you suppose it actually is love? It won't make you unhappy, will it? Besides you can be very busy trying to win me. That will be exciting enough for both of us, won't it?" "Yes--if I try." "But you will try, won't you?" she demanded mockingly. He said, forcing a smile: "You seem to think it impossible that I could win you." "Oh," she said airily, "I don't say that. You see I don't know the method of procedure. I don't know what you're going to do about your falling in love with me." He leaned over and took her by the waist; and she drew back instinctively, surprised and disconcerted. "That is silly," she said. "Are you going to be silly with me, Clive?" "No," he said, "I won't be that." He sat looking at her in silence for a few moments. And slowly the belief entered his heart like a slim steel blade that she had never loved, and that there was in her nothing except what she had said there was, loyalty and devotion, unsullied and spiritual, clean of all else lower and less noble, guiltless of passion, ignorant of desire. As he looked at her he remembered the past--remembered that once he might have taught her love in all its attributes--that once he might have married her. For in a school so gentle and secure as wedlock such a girl might learn to love. He had had his chance. What did he want of her now, then?--more than he had of her already. Love? Her devotion amounted to that--all of it that could concern a man already married--hopelessly married to a woman who would never submit to divorce. What did he want of her then? He turned and walked to the open window and stood looking out over the city. Sunset blazed crimson at the western end of every cross-street. Far away on the Jersey shore electric lights began to sparkle. He did not know she was behind him until one arm fell lightly on his shoulder. It remained there after her imprisoned waist yielded a little to his arm. "You are not unhappy, are you, Clive?" "No." "I didn't mean to take it lightly. I don't comprehend; that's all. It seems to me that I can't care for you more than I do already. Do you understand?" "Yes, dear." She raised one cool hand and drew his cheek gently against her own, and rested so a moment, looking out across the misty city. He remembered that night of his departure when she had put both arms around his neck and kissed him. It had been like the serene touch of a crucifix to his lips. It was like that now,--the smooth, passionless touch of her cool, young face against his, and her slim hand framing his cheek. "To think," she murmured to herself, "that you should ever care for me in that way, too.... It is wonderful, wonderful--and very sweet--if it does not make you unhappy. Does it?" "No." "It's so dear of you to love me that way, Clive. Could--could _I_ do anything--about it?" "How?"