CHAPTER XXII It was half-past nine when Wilmer left Allston alone in front of the open fire and went upstairs. And though it was after midnight before she fell asleep, she had not then heard his footsteps along the hall. She had listened, too, rather closely. The man had been in her thoughts every minute since she bade him good-night and retreated to her room. Her abrupt and somewhat inhospitable departure was a retreat--nothing less. She had been neither weary, sleepy, nor bored. In fact, she had retired at a moment when she had felt herself more than usually alert and alive both mentally and physically--more alive than she felt it either discreet or safe to be. When a carefully nurtured and intelligent young woman finds herself prompted to such intimate acts of tenderness as smoothing back the hair from the forehead of a man she has lately chided for being too boldly impulsive, it would seem to be high time for her to remove herself out of danger even though that involves a humiliating confession. It was no argument either that because his hair was light and all awry, it appeared like the hair of a boy; or that because his face was troubled, her tenderness was justified on purely humanitarian grounds. Besides, she had considered nothing of the sort. She had wished to do it because some newly roused instinct craved satisfaction in just that way. There was no use in lying. That was both cowardly and useless. If there were mortal sin here this was no way of ridding one’s self of it. One should probe for causes. That is what the intellect is for. The ability to do this or not is what distinguishes between the intelligent and the unintelligent. Well, then, the reason she had wished to smooth back the hair from Allston’s forehead was because--she had wished to do it. He was worried and she held herself partly responsible. She could not help this. She had tried to be honest both with him and herself--to speak the truth as she saw it. But having done this she was sorry because it had not helped to dissipate his perplexity. It had only more deeply involved them both. Words had been unavailing. It was then that this strangely primitive impulse had asserted itself. Her warm hand urged her to express what her tongue could not. She had conquered the temptation. That is a woman’s lot; to conquer and conquer and conquer. Given emotions more acute than those of men, she is asked to control them more completely. If she does not, she is never forgiven. She has betrayed her trust. She had conquered the physical impulse, but that was all. Alone here in her room she knew that. The old tenderness returned--the tenderness that sought expression in action. And after all perhaps it was not so strange. Men have always sought and women always given this tangible proof of their feelings. Down through the years a woman has spoken her heart through the touch of her hand and lips. Speech has been left for men.