Her eyes were turned away. He could only see the faint outline of her cheek and the slender curve of her girlish neck. She threw out remarks as they traveled--remarks which called for no answer and expected none. “Horace’ll have to own now that she was wise in cultivating other friendships. Poor old Horace!--And all those bills will be covered up to-morrow with some new great success. Such is fame!--Fluffy’s so discouraged.” “Do you think that was true?” “What?” Her question was asked lazily, more out of politeness than curiosity. “That _October_ was her autobiography?” “Partly. Artistic people like to think themselves tragic. You do. I’ve noticed.” “I think it was.” He refused to be diverted. “I think it was real tragedy. She’s given up so much for fame; it’s brought her nothing.” Desire laughed quietly. “The old subject. I knew where you were going the minute you started. It’s like a hat that you want to get rid of; you hang it on every peg you come to. No, I’m not meaning to be unkind; but you do amuse me, Meester Deek.--Fluffy’s very much to be envied.” “Why?” “She’s beautiful.” “So are you. But being beautiful isn’t everything. Being loved is the thing that satisfies.” “Does it? And loving too, I expect. But you see I don’t know: I’ve never loved.” “You won’t let yourself love.” He spoke the words almost inaudibly. They both fell silent. She still bent forward, her head and shoulders silhouetted against the pane. Her lack of response made his passion seem foolishness. During the weeks of enforced friendship the physical bond between them had been growing more compelling. It was only in crowded places that her actions acknowledged it; when they were by themselves her reticence announced plainly, “Trespassers will be prosecuted.” Then she became forbidding; but her sudden gusts of coldness, her very inaccessibility, only added the more to her attraction. He told himself that women who left men nothing to conquer were not valued. He found himself filled with overpowering longings to defy her attempts to thwart him. His mind seethed with pictures of what might happen. He saw himself pressing those hands against his lips, kissing her eyes or her slender neck, where the false curl danced and beckoned. Would this pain of expectancy never end? Did she also suffer beneath her pale aloofness? With the high-strung sensitiveness of the lover, he began to suspect that his procrastination piqued her. Sometimes he fancied that even Vashti criticized his delay in announcing his intentions. He dreaded lest Desire should think that he was flirting. But why didn’t she help him? Did girls ever help their lovers? She increased his difficulties at every opportunity. Shyness, perhaps! Time and again when he had nerved himself to the point of proposing, she had struck him dumb with a languid triviality or flippancy of gesture.