An icy shiver of rapture gripped him as the tiny teeth tightened; as if the fangs of the serpent of forbidden love tentatively touched him, gloating in their power ... saving him for further sacrifice. "There.... Are you satisfied, Mr. Lover?" Curbing the tumult in his blood, he drew up a chair and faced her. "I ... we mustn't let this happen again, Louise _ma cherie_. Kisses ... and all ... I once said--do you remember?--are only the preludes to the finale of love. I am married; it won't hurt me; but you're--you're not." Her hand rested lightly on his. "You aren't the first man who has ... loved me. You needn't worry about ... me." Uncertainly his eyes searched the liquid deeps of hers. "Not the first?..." She flushed unconsciously, returning his level look. Her words came slowly. "Why, no, inquisitive Mr. Lover. There was another man ... we intended to marry.... I'm glad, anyhow." The last three sentences came in soft haste; such frankness embarrassed her. She covered it, changing the theme. "It isn't fair to Jane----" "Life isn't fair to any of us." His compelling gaze was put on to hide the fleeting emotion of inner timidity. "Where shall we...." "Lydia Hasson isn't nearly as ... careful as the Tollivers. They're away a lot...." She readjusted the pillows swiftly, as steps and scraps of conversation floated up the hollow shaft of the circular stairway. "Hadn't we better go?" The Hassons were not at home, when he called two nights later; but their car might roll up any minute. "This is tantalizing, heart-love," he complained. "It's something to have you here, anyway," as she cuddled deeper into the wide couch-swing behind the ferns on the wide railing. "We must be careful. If Lydia suspected----" Expressive eyes capped the meaning. Jane had the Cades in for dinner, the next night; when Pelham arrived from the office, Harvey was entertaining the women with a nasal rendition of Judge Roscoe Little's mannerisms while enunciating a decision for both sides at once. The lawyer's welcome contrasted with some hidden constraint beneath Jane's tempered greeting. Throughout the meal and the talk afterwards he sensed that something was wrong. He could not quite make out what it was; perhaps it lay in his imagination. His wife swished quickly inside, as the guests chugged away, leaving him to rearrange the porch chairs and follow more slowly. Something was up, that was clear. She sat at her living-room desk, a litter of letters hurriedly pulled out before her. At his entrance, she raised frosty eyes to his. Without words she observed him. Disquieted by the confident, almost hostile stare, he sat heavily, clutching a handy magazine from the fresh pile beneath the reading lamp. She did not speak. He exhaled noisily, and turned to the opening story. "I met Lane Cullom this afternoon," she began in a moment, her voice leveled and restrained. "What did he have to say?"