She was graceful. The couch was low. She sat ensconced in a corner, her outstretched arm hung in a flimsy sleeve, color of faded violet. Her skin like the sleeve was dim. Her eyes and the stones in her rings were bright. “You are so quick to understand. I am going to tell you. I’m worrying about Marcia.” “That won’t help us, you know.” “Why can’t she make up her mind to love some one?” Tom laughed. “What a lot of contradictions in a little sentence!” “I don’t know--I don’t know what we may have to do.” She seemed, after all, resigned. If Marcia could love no one, with her mind or without, let her stay single. “She hasn’t accepted Van Ness yet?” Laura Duffield shook her head. Tom thought swiftly. “Where is Marcia? Is she in? Tell her I am here?” The mother arose and called the girl. Marcia came to the door, stood silent. “Hello, Marcia. I came to see you, this evening. Not your Mamma.” He believed it. He wanted to be with her--all else was a pretext. “Yes: and it’s lucky too,” Mrs. Duffield bustled to her desk. “I have a thousand letters to answer. Do be dears, and leave me alone.” She was settled and her back was on them. She was looking better. Such confidence she had in Tom! He followed Marcia. She went to the opposite corner of her room: near her cheval glass. She stood there. Tom closed the door, let his weight lean upon it, then seated himself in a broad arm-chair. Her whiteness was taut: her black hair and eyes were hot. A tremble swift and faint sang through her. She found she could not stop it. She moved and took up an ivory brush, she strove to let her trembling flow from her two hands to it. It was a very long time since Tom and she were alone. “Marcia, please sit down.” She complied at once: she flushed with anger that she had. Tom came and leaned over her. He looked obliquely at her great black eyes and the sharp perfection of her chin and the way of her white throat. He put his open hands on her hair, he turned her face upward toward him. He placed his dosed lips on her parted ones. His hands slipped down her face, her neck, her body. He stood away. She said: “Why do you do that, Tom?” “That is how I feel.” “Don’t lie, Tom.” “I am not lying, Marcia.” Her eyes blazed up. It was a burst of bravery and challenge. They crumpled. She hid her head in her arms, she wept. Tom put his hand firmly to the back of her head where the hair was caught away from the neck. “Listen, Marcia, I am not lying. Listen, please, Marcia.” She was silent, if she was still weeping. She did not raise her head. Tom leaned and kissed her neck. The faint scent of her hair in his eyes. Marcia straightened sudden. He met the attack of her gesture. “Now listen, do you hear?” She stayed balanced, looking at him straight: her eyes filled with an ironic hunger. So Tom wanted her. He began before she changed.