No one else was at home, that evening. Anne brought early tea to Lois and to David. “It is _our_ house to-night,” Lois was playful. A strange exhilaration still sang and worked in him. He looked at the girl who had shared those sweltering nights: he looked at Lois flattering his new ease. It all seemed right to David. It was right that Anne had been there to take. He smiled on her masterfully. The girl was fearful lest the young Miss understand. But we can bring to our minds through intuition only such thoughts our minds have words for. The remote amour was an unthought-of, an impossible thing to Lois. Anne’s own senses, feeling this as they groped forward, again came to rest. She waited on them with a sweet dignity. It was so plain she was a woman. A woman was a creature whose life was nourished by herself. A creature free of the world. David felt this, as they sat munching at table. It was the quiet serving girl who made him think of woman. With her blood she nurtured. In her womb, at her breast, with her hands, forever her own mute spirit giving men food. Woman was the true master of life: the sourceless god. David looked at Lois. A faint chill went through him. It seemed to him that Lois was not quite woman. She was less herself, than this waiting servant. He felt her need of sustenance, her lack in this of godhood. Anne helped her to cake. There she was cutting the cake, simply--sublimely? Lois was above the table like a flower. He thought of the strength of Anne’s abandon: of the wise strength of her withdrawal. Wisdom and strength--for him! Cornelia came also. She, too, was more woman. Already there was lodged the seed of dissolution in his heart for Lois, before the climax of his caring. Upstairs, he went far toward it. Lois’ arm was about him, the air of her body stabbed his blood: he forgot his comparisons. He was quite sure he loved Lois. They sat so close together, and often she placed her cheek against his lips. He saw the fine tautness of her body hiding beneath the flimsy frock it wore. He desired her body. He desired to break its tautness. “Is it wrong, Lois dear, to love one’s cousin? Because I love you very much.” “It is extremely proper.” A fire had been fanned in him that afternoon: fanned by Cornelia. It burned for Lois. He viced her shoulders in his hands and looked at her, as one stiffens before a leap. His hands slipped upward to her head. The thrill of her skin and her flesh flowed through his hands like blood. He held her face. He wanted to tell her how he loved her. His own face came nearer, it was like a death and a birth: a frenzy of change. She thrust her head downward, his mouth sank in the mesh of her hair behind her ear. He was panting. “Why don’t you let me kiss you--as I _must_?” Lois withdrew her body. Her mood was not changed. “Don’t be silly, David. I can’t let you kiss me, that way.”