What happened then was so wholly outside his reckoning that the preceding events of the evening retired tamely into the background. It had been conceivable that rush of passion might drive him to break all the rules of conduct his New England conscience had set over him; but what Alma Marston did overwhelmed him with such stupefaction that he stood there as rigid and motionless as a belaying-pin in a rack. She put up her arms, pressed her two hands on his shoulders, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him on his lips. “There, foolish old Yankee,” she said, softly, her mouth close to his; “since you are so ashamed I give you back your kiss--and all is made right between us, because we are just where we started a little while ago.” His amazement had so benumbed him that even after that surrender he stood there, close to her, his countenance blank, his arms dangling at his side. “What on earth is the matter with you?” she asked, petulantly. “I don't know! I--I--I don't seem to understand.” “I'm going to be honest with you. You are so honest you will understand me, then,” she told him. It seemed to him that he must be mistaken, but he certainly felt her arms were slipping up his shoulders and had met behind his neck. “I saw it in your eyes long ago. A woman always knows. I wanted you to do what you did to-night. I knew I would be obliged to tempt you. I came up here while the moon and the music would help me. I did it all on purpose--I stood close to you--for I knew you were just my slow old Yankee who would never come out of his shell till I poked. There! I have confessed!” His mad joy did not allow him to see anything of the coquette in that confession. It all seemed to be consecrated by the love he felt for her--a love which was so honest that he perceived no boldness in the attitude of this girl who had come so far to meet him. He took her into his arms again, and she returned his kisses. “Tell me again, Boyd, that you love me,” she coaxed. “And yet I have no right to love you. You are--” “Hush! Hush! There goes your Yankee caution talking! I want love, for I am a girl. Love hasn't anything to do with what you are or what I am. Not now! We will love each other--and wait! You are my big boy! Aren't you?” He was glad to comply with her plea to put sensible talk from them just then. There was nothing sensible he could say. He was holding Julius Marston's daughter in his arms, and she was telling him that she loved him. The world was suddenly upside down and he was surrendering himself to the mad present. In the yacht's saloon below a woman began to sing: “Love comes like a summer sigh, Softly o'er us stealing. Love comes and we wonder why To its shrine we're kneeling. Love comes as the days go by--”