“Not a hectic, experimental kind of existence,” he said. “I don’t?” “No. Not for yourself. You may want to be that sort of person to please Clive. But _you_ don’t want it. You want—I’ll tell you what you want.” He spoke confidently. “It’s very simple. You want a husband, and children, and a home, and you want to stay there—you want to be _made_ to stay there.” She stirred restlessly, and seemed about to speak, but he motioned her abruptly to keep still, and went on authoritatively. “Oh, don’t deny it. You want somebody to take you in charge—some one in whom you really believe, that you can really depend upon, somebody who can boss the job. Don’t you!” he finished rather imperiously. She smiled at him quizzically, and then said, “Yes. Maybe I do. How did you guess?” “I knew,” he said. “Well, don’t tell anybody that I’m such a ridiculous person!” she said. And suddenly she slipped down from the bed to the floor, and put her arm across his knees, and laid her head against it, without speaking. After a while she looked up, and asked timidly, “Do you mind? I wanted to.” 3 Felix caressed her shoulder with his hand, lightly—feeling in some queer way that she was a child and that he was some infinitely older and wiser person. They sat there a long time, she with her head resting against his knee, and he with his hand touching her shoulder. At last she took his other hand and held it against her face, with an apparently unconscious and instinctive gesture, as if she were in truth a child. He had a deep conviction that this was not love-making in any ordinary sense. There was some blessed healing in these contacts for them both—that was all. Yes—for him, too. For as he bent over her, with his hand nourished against her cheek, he seemed to be finding rest, finding some quiet peace which his spirit needed. This touch was enough. It was balm for a weariness of which he had not been aware. It was rest, it was peace, it was his dream of her come true. She lifted her head at last, like some one who has waked from a refreshing sleep. “You are very good to me,” she said, and rose up. He stood up, suddenly conscious of how long they had been together, and wondered what time it was. She glanced at her clock on the mantel, and his look followed hers. It was three o’clock. “Gracious!” she whispered. He started to walk across the floor, and a board creaked; he finished the journey to his door on tiptoe, half ashamed and angry at taking such a precaution. It gave an air of the illicit to the occasion. At the door he turned. She had remained standing beside his chair. He could not shake hands with her without going back. But why was he hurrying away in such a frightened manner, as if he had done something wrong? He recrossed the room and held out his hand. “Good night, Phyllis.” “Good night, Felix Fay.” He walked boldly back to his own room, and closed the door with a defiant bang.