Hermia gave a little exclamation of disgust, but struggled onward. “Sometimes I hate you,” she said. “You never respond to my moods.” “Oh, yes, I do—to your real moods. You often think you are sentimental, when, should I take you up, you would find me a bore and change the subject. You will get sentimental enough some day, but you are not ready for it yet.” “Yes? You still cling to that ridiculous idea that I shall some day fall in love, I suppose.” “I do. And how you will go to pieces.” “That is purest nonsense. I wish it were not.” “Have you got that far? But we will not argue the matter. Your mood to-night, as I suggested before, is not a sentimental one. You are extremely cross. I don’t know but I like that better. It would be hard for me to be sentimental in the streets of New York.” Hermia rather liked being bullied by him at times. But if she could only shake that effortless self-control! They walked a block in silence. “Are you very susceptible to beauty?” she asked suddenly. Quintard laughed. “I am afraid I am. Still, I will do myself the justice to say that it has no power to hold me if there is nothing else. Beauty by itself is a poor thing; combined with several other things—intellect, soul, passion—it becomes one of the sweetest and most powerful aids to communion.” “Why do you think so much of passion?” she demanded. “You haven’t any yourself.” They passed under a lamp at the moment, and a ray of light fell on Quintard’s face, to which Hermia had lifted her eyes. The color sprang to it, and his eyes flashed. He bent his head until she shrank under the strong, angry magnetism of his gaze. “It is time you opened your eyes,” he said harshly, “and learned to know one man from another. And it is time you began to realize what you have to expect.” He bent his face a little closer. “It will not frighten you, though,” he said. And then he raised his head and carefully piloted her across the street. Hermia made no reply. She opened her lips as if her lungs needed more air. Something was humming in her head; she could not think. She looked up through a light-path into the dark, piling billows of the vaporous, storm-writhed ocean. Then she caught Quintard’s arm as if she were on an eminence and afraid of falling. “Are you cold?” he asked, drawing her closer. “Yes,” said Hermia. “I wish we were home. How thick the snow is! Things are in my eyes.” Quintard stopped and brushed the little crystals off her lashes. Then they went on, slipping sometimes, but never falling. Quintard was very sure-footed. The snow covered them with a garment like soft white fur, the darkness deepened, and neither made further attempt at conversation. Quintard had all he could do to keep his bearings, and began to wish that he had not let Hermia have her way; but she trudged along beside him with a blind sort of confidence new to her.