David chatted. He was out of himself. His words came frictionless. His words slowed down. He was aware of the stimulus that had taken him out of himself, that had made him chatter.... Caroline. Lord. He saw her. Hands rested in her lap: white strong hands in a wide strong lap. A body luxuriantly full: it was strong. A wave of light from the lamp touched her hair, made it a glow in the room.... She had without words a maternal comeliness: she looked down, while he spoke, at her hands with a girlish reserve.... David got up and kissed her. She flushed and did not respond. He kissed her several times. He was up to leave, she stood close under him. She was warm. A certain discomfort kneaded her firm body, cloying it. She took his hand, looked down at it, she looked up to his face, not quite meeting his eyes. She squeezed his hand and pressed it against her waist. She said: “You can’t really care for me, David?” So David knew he did not really care. But she had one charm: the joy there was in bringing a timid flush upon so strong a body. He came frequently. He delighted to kiss her. Caroline Lord loved to be kissed. She had not planned this. She had in a deep way planned nothing in her life. But she had the gift, as each new fact dawned on the rim of her world, to be convinced that she had ordered it. Since David was there,--the nephew of Mr. Deane--and since her senses loved his kissing her, she planned a marriage. The unfortunate circumstance was this: by the time she had hatched her plans and cleared the way in her mind, she had already tasted the delight of being kissed by David. And this was unfortunate because she felt as part of her campaign toward marriage the need of circumspection in such advances as kisses. David noticed no change at first. Miss Lord feared to go too fast. She had a sickening sense that she might lose all in her effort to gain all. She found herself shamefully willing to temporize, and to enjoy the evils of the day. But as he held her in his arms, her little shifts began. She said to him: “David, you do care for me?” “David, if I felt that you could misunderstand why I let you kiss me, oh, David,--it would kill me.” “David, what is going to become of us? I feel that we must be doing wrong.” David began to feel how she was indeed asking him a question. She was expecting something of him. He must give her an answer. He said to himself: “She wants me to propose to her. Oh, I am sorry!” His passion was gone. He was too kind abruptly to stop his visits. It would have been the kindest thing to do. But David was not egoist enough to know it. He came less often, and left her alone. He tried to talk to her. He realized how little talk there had been in the happy visits: how fully those evenings of delight had been evenings of kisses. The talk wearied him: the “moral tone” was pervasive and obtrusive. “Give! Give yourself!” her blood cried against her temples.