It was the night on which Freda and her mother were to dine with them. Gage, dressed before his wife, had dropped in to watch her. He loved to see her do her hair. She seemed exquisitely beautiful to him when she deftly parted and coiled the loose masses of it--more than beautiful--exquisitely woman. He loved to see the woman quality in her, not to awaken passion or desire but for the sense of wonder it gave him. He loved to cherish her. “We’re all full of phrases,” he said, a little hurt already. “But she has something behind her phrases. She’s unspoiled yet by ideas.” “She’s full of ideas. You should see the things that young modern reads. She’s without experience--without dogmas yet. But she’ll acquire those. At present she’s looking for beauty. You might show it to her, she may find it in Margaret; perhaps she’ll find it in her canting little mother.” “She would find it in you if you’d let her see you.” “Do you think I’m anything to copy? You seem dissatisfied so often, Gage.” “Don’t, Helen.” He came over to where she sat and bent to lay his cheek against her hair. Her hand caressed his cheek and his eyes closed. She wanted to ask him what would happen to them if they could not bury argument in a caress but she knew the torch that would be to his anger. He felt her lack of response. “I’m not dissatisfied with you. I’m dissatisfied because I can’t have you completely to myself. I’m dissatisfied because you can’t sit beside me, above and indifferent to a host of silly men and women parading false ideas.” “I’m not so sure they are false. I can’t get your conviction about everything modern. I want to try things out.” “But, Helen, it’s not your game. Look--since Margaret came you’ve been dabbling in this--that--politics, clubs, what not. You are bored with me.” “Impossible, darling. But you really mustn’t expect the good, old-fashioned, clinging vine stuff from me. I’m not any good at it. Now please hurry down, dear, and see if there are cigars and cigarettes, will you? And you’ll have to have your cocktail alone because if I had one before Mrs. Thorstad she’d think I was a Scarlet Woman.” There was nothing for Gage to do but go with that familiar sense of failure. After he had gone, Helen’s face lost some of its lightness and she sat looking at herself in the glass. Without admiration--without calculation. She was wondering how much of love was sex--wondering how she could fortify herself against the passing of the charms of sex--wondering why Gage had such a frantic dislike of women like Margaret who hadn’t succumbed to sex--wondering if that was the reason. She thought of the pretty Thorstad child. Gage liked her. That too might be a manifestation of vague unadmitted desire. She shivered a little. Such thoughts made her very cold. Then with a conscience smitten glance at her little porcelain clock she slipped into her dress and rang for the maid to hook it.