“I could neither understand nor play such a character as the woman in your last book.... Nor could I ever believe in her.... Nor in the ugliness of her world--the world you write about, nor in the dreary, hopeless, malformed, starving minds you analyse.... My God, Mr. Annan--are there no wholesome brains in the world you write about?... I’m sorry.... You know that I am ignorant, not experienced, crude--trying to learn truths, striving to see and understand.... I have not travelled far on any road. But I shall never live long enough to travel the road you follow, nor shall I ever comprehend such vision, such intention, such art as you have mastered.... You are a master. I do believe that.... Always you have remained very wonderful to me.... Your mind.... Your wisdom.... _You._” She clasped her slender fingers tighter over her knees but looked at him out of clear, intelligent eyes that seemed almost black in their purplish depths. “With me,” she said, “the love of beauty, and the belief in it, give me all my strength. I need to believe in beauty: it is my first necessity.... And remains my last.... And I never have discovered a truth that is not beautiful.... There is no ugliness, no evil in Truth.” He got to his feet slowly, and began to walk about the room in an aimless, nervous way, as though under some vague, indefinite menace,--of proven inferiority, perhaps. Reaction set in toward boyish self-assertion; and it came with a sudden rush,--and a forced laugh that, unexpectedly to her, exposed his wound. Surprised that he had suffered such a one, incredulous that so slight a mind as hers had dealt it, she sat watching him. Gradually all the bright hardness in her gaze melted to a tender grey. Yet, it seemed incredible that so slight a creature as she could matter to him intellectually,--could have hurt so brilliantly armoured a being. And then, all suddenly, she realised she had hurt a boy and not a mind. He came to her where she was seated, took her hands from her lap, looked wretchedly into her eyes, starry now with imminence of tears. “All that really matters,” he said, “is that your mind should forgive mine and your heart care for mine.” His clasp was drawing her to her feet; and she stood up, not resisting, not confused, nor betraying any emotion visible to him, unless he understood the starry brilliancy of her young eyes. “I’m falling in love with you, Eris. That is the only thing that matters,” he said. He kissed her mouth twice; drew her warm head to his breast; touched her face with his lips, very gently,--her clustered curls; and she looked back at him out of eyes in which light trembled. If her soft, cool lips remained unresponsive, at least they did not avoid his, nor did her cool body drawn close, closely imprisoned. After a long while, against him, he was aware of her heart, hurrying. In the first flash of boyish passion he crushed her in his arms and felt her breath and lips suddenly hot against his.