* * * * * Mrs. Luve leaned back in her chair, took the brimming words of Samson Brenner. They poured from him, free, full, into the dark pool of her eyes. They poured bright, candid: in the dark pool they fell dark. --You talk of your fears and your pains: you talk of your loves and your dreams. You are a Jew, you are true. Why is the word Christ never in your mouth? --O there is reason, deep! What is the pain of nearness--you pampered Jew, you Jew-boy, plump about sorrow--that blots the word Christ from your mouth? “Mrs. Luve, I forget myself. I talk. I lose myself, there sudden I am. I do not know myself, but I say ‘that is me!’”--Pampered boy. “I talk and talk. God knows of what and why. Mrs. Luve, do I bore you?” “You move along a path that is mine. Go on. I have no earthly thing to do but hear you.” “You are grave!” “Not so grave as you.” “But I laugh. I must tell you ... the first time I really heard laughter....” --You move upon my life like a broken sun ashift through cloud at evening after a black day.... You in the flame of my candles, you in the black of my room.... What is this word Christ you know too deep to utter?” * * * * * Fanny standing moved her hand from the gathered flowers on the table ... cherry and pear buds high, bowls of anemone, violets ... to her lips. “He is coming!” She stood. The door thrust forward--and was away from between them. Clad in white she held firm against the sight of him; tall and dark with pale hands and face, he rose from her still eyes like a column of smoke. “Harry!” Then she held out her arms. He shut the door. He knelt. “Get up, husband.” He kissed her hands. She lifted his head in her two palms, lifted him up. His lips were on hers. They were thin, sweet, laden now with little gasps of air warmed sweet in sweet lungs: no smells of liquor and smoke like a hot corrugation scraping her sense. He broke from her and sat in a chair. His breath was sudden, he had run a race. One hand lay palpitant against a knee: breathless, afraid, a being out of its element. She thought of a sea. He was fished up dry from a sea. “Harry,” she spoke low. She knelt at his feet: she looked up: she could smile now. “Get up, wife.” “No ... let me. Let me always.” His dry hands, tremulous, waved about her hair: seeking, afraid: they were moths now, fluttering upon a light: so his eyes. His face was pale and hurt turned down upon her smiling. Fluttering search collapsed. He hid his face in his hands. “Do not cry now.” She felt shut out by his hiding hands. “I do not cry. Instead, I pray.” He looked at her. All of him was dry. From his words he seemed to have won bravery. She felt shut out in his looking. His eyes were braver: his hands. They moved forward upon her shadowing face: they sought a thing, found it. They carried her mouth upon his, differently, upward. He stood, she under him. Her flesh touched his flesh.