The kind of sweetness he found in Alma he could never articulate even to himself. In some ways she seemed hardly to have the pressure of vitality to match his, but on the other hand, just that slower beat to her may have heightened his sense of prowess. His greatest delight seemed to lie in her pallid loveliness. "White Honeysuckle," he called her and the names of all the beautiful white flowers he knew. And then one night, to the rattle of poker chips from the remote dining-room, he jerked her to him without preamble, kissing her mouth down tightly against her teeth. "My sweetheart. My little, white carnation sweetheart. I won't be held off any longer. I'm going to carry you away for my little moon-flower wife." She sprang back prettier than he had ever seen her in the dishevelment from where his embrace had dragged at her hair. "You mustn't," she cried, but there was enough of the conquering male in him to read easily into this a mere plating over her desire. "You can't hold me at arm's length any longer. You've maddened me for months. I love you. You love me. You do. You do," and crushed her to him, but this time his pain and his surprise genuine as she sprang back, quivering. "You--I--mustn't!" she said, frantic to keep her lips from twisting, her little lacy fribble of a handkerchief a mere string from winding. "Mustn't what?" "Mustn't," was all she could repeat and not weep her words. "Won't--I--do?" "It's--mama." "What?" "You see--I--she's all alone." "You adorable, she's got a brand-new husky husband." "No--you don't--understand." Then, on a thunder-clap of inspiration, hitting his knee, "I have it. Mama-baby! That's it. My girlie is a cry-baby, mama-baby!" And made to slide along the divan toward her, but up flew her two small hands, like fans. "No," she said with the little bang back in her voice which steadied him again. "I mustn't! You see, we're so close. Sometimes it's more as if I were the mother and she my little girl." Misery made her dumb. "Why don't you know, dear, that your mother is better able to take care of herself than you are. She's bigger and stronger. You--you're a little white flower." "Leo--give me time. Let me think." "A thousand thinks, Alma, but I love you. I love you and want so terribly for you to love me back." "I--do." "Then tell me with kisses." Again she pressed him to arm's length. "Please, Leo. Not yet. Let me think. Just one day. Tomorrow." "No, no. Now." "Tomorrow." "When?" "Evening." "No, morning." "All right Leo--tomorrow morning--" "I'll sit up all night and count every second in every minute and every minute in every hour." She put up her soft little fingers to his lips. "Dear boy," she said. And then they kissed and after a little swoon to his nearness she struggled like a caught bird and a guilty one. "Please go, Leo," she said, "leave me alone--"