"I want you to be happy, Little One." Once more he buried his face in his hands, but she knelt before him and pulled his hands away. "Do you think anything in all the world could make me as happy as your love?" Suddenly--with a great rush of weariness--he saw clearly the gulf between them. He knew from his own experience what thrilling things the word "love" may mean. And he could no longer lay claim to it. "What do you mean by love?" he asked drearily. Yetta crumpled up in a heap at his feet. If he did not know what "love" meant, the Palace of Dreams was indeed crumbling. "Don't you know?" she whispered. The clock ticked dolefully while she waited for his answer. "Yes. I'm afraid I do know what it means to you, Yetta. And I haven't got that to give you. I think love means romance to you. That is what Isadore and Youth have to offer. I had it once--years ago--enough and to spare. I gave it all away--where it wasn't wanted. There isn't any glitter left. "I came to you, Yetta, in quest of this very thing--which I have lost. I can't tell you how beautiful, how dazzling you look to my tired eyes--how much to be desired--how much above price--like the Song of Songs. And being selfish, I thought only of my want, of my hungry loneliness. I did not remember--till Isadore came in--that you too had a right--a much better right than my desire--to Youth. "It would not be honest, Yetta, to accept your love, unless I made quite sure that you know me, know what you are doing, the choice you are making--stripped of romance, in its cold nakedness. It isn't a choice, Yetta, between me and Isadore. It's deeper than that, deeper than individuals. I must see that you make your choice with clear eyes. If you want romance--the grand passion--well--I haven't that to offer you. I--" His voice trailed off into silence. Perhaps he was a fool. But for the first time in his life he was giving up something he wanted, something he could have for the asking. For the first time in his life he had utterly cleansed himself of selfishness. It was a momentous triumph over his nature, but it was only momentary. His desire for the girl at his feet came over him with a rush. She was resting her head against the ledge of the window-seat and--her clenched fist pressed against her lips--was staring at the black shadows under the table. Perhaps a scrupulous definition forbade the use of the word "love" to describe his emotion, but it was none the less strong. The last twenty-four hours had been wondrously sweet to him. There was a grace to her clean, fresh youth, a charm to her caresses, her restrained but unhid passion, the timidities and spontaneous abandon of her maidenhood, which had enchanted all the roots of his being. And besides and above all this--though life holds little better than such emotions--was the hope that with her he might get into the swing of activity, the ascending curve of work and purpose.