“What is it?” He had to force the words out. “I--I hate to tell, but I want you to--to help me.” “Well?” To Kent, at that moment, she was not Manley's wife; she was not any man's wife; she was the girl he loved--loved with the primitive, absorbing passion of the man who lives naturally and does not borrow his morals from his next-door neighbor. His code of ethics was his own, thought out by himself. Val hated her husband, and her husband did not seem to care much for her. They were tied together legally. And a mere legality could not hold back the emotions and the desires of Kent Burnett. With him, it was not a question of morals: it was a question of Val's feeling in the matter. Val looked up at him, found something strange in his eyes, and immediately looked away again. “Your eyes are always saying things I can't hear,” she observed irrelevantly. “Are they? Do you want me to act as interpreter?” “No. I just want you to listen. Have you noticed anything different about me lately, Kent?” She tilted her head, while she passed judgment upon a cluster of speckled blossoms, odd but not particularly pretty. “What do you mean, anyway? I'm liable to get off wrong if I tell you--” “Oh, you're so horribly cautious! Have I seemed any more content--any happier lately?” Kent picked a spray of flowers and puled them ruthlessly to pieces. “Maybe I've kinda hoped so,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Well, I've a new interest in life. I just discovered it by accident, almost--” Kent lifted his head and looked keenly at her, and his face was a lighter shade of brown than it had been. “It seems to change everything. Pal, I--I've been writing things.” Kent discovered he had been holding his breath, and let it go in a long sigh. “Oh!” After a minute he smiled philosophically. “What kinda things?” he drawled.