“I haven't the least interest in it,” Savina assured him; “I can't imagine why we bought the seats. Why did we, Lee, when we have each other?” “Our own private Folly.” He smiled at her. “Not that,” she reproved him; “I can't bear to think of it in a small way. Why, it will be all I'll ever have--I shall never think of anyone else like this again; and you'll go back, you'll go away. But I hope you won't forget me, not at once--you must keep me in your heart for a little.” “I'll never be able to get you out,” he declared. “You want to, then, and I am--” She lost control of herself as though she had passed into a hypnosis, uniquely frozen with passion, incapable of movement, of the accommodation of her sight; her breathing was slow, almost imperceptible in its shallowness. “I am a part of you,” Savina went on when she had recovered. “It would kill me if I weren't. But it does mean something.” Her heel cut until he thought he was bleeding. “What?” he asked, through the thin azure smoke of the cigar. She shook her head contentedly: “I don't care; I have--now, anyway--what I wish, what I've always wished for--you. I didn't know it was you right away, how could I? Not even when we had tea, and talked about Mina and your young Morris, that first afternoon. It was the next day before I understood. Why wasn't it long long ago, when I was a girl, twelve years old? Yes, quite that early. Isn't it queer, Lee, how I have been troubled by love? It bothers hardly anyone else, it scarcely touches the rest. There is a lot of talk about it, but, all the while, people detest it. They are always wearing dresses and pretentions they can't afford to have mussed. It--I am still talking of love, Lee darling--breaks up their silly society and morals ... like a strong light thrown on something shabby.” Once more he had the feeling that, before the actuality of Savina's tragic necessity, his own speculations were merely visionary, immaterial; yet he tried to put them into words, to explain, so far as he was able, what it was in him that was hers. But he did this omitting, perhaps, the foundation of all that he was trying to say--he didn't speak of Cytherea. He avoided putting the doll into words because he could think of none that would make his meaning, his attachment, clear. Lee couldn't, very well, across the remnants of dinner, admit to Savina that a doll bought out of a confectioner's window on Fifth Avenue so deeply influenced him. He hadn't lost Cytherea in Savina so much as, vitalized, he had found her. And, while he had surrendered completely to the woman and emotion, at the same time the immaterial aspect of his search, if he could so concretely define it, persisted. The difference between Savina and himself was this: while she was immersed, obliterated, satisfied, in her passion, a part of him, however small, stayed aside. It didn't control him, but simply went along, like a diminutive and wondering child he had by the hand.