And she thought wildly that there were plenty of girls in their early twenties who were older than she; as well as colder, with less gift for Passion. Girls who were narrower in their outlook, girls who were less generous, less sympathetic, less adaptable than she, as his wife, could be. There were girls with petty minds and tongues that could say little, jealous, spiteful things about other women. These had nothing but their ignorant youth; did that outweigh all that she had to give? Ah, she could point to girls still in their teens who were already nearer the end of their powers than she was, even nearer the end of their looks. Was it really better for him to choose a girl? It was her, Claudia, the woman, that he wanted.... She could surely make of herself another exception to the unpitying rule that Youth must mate with Youth. "Say 'yes' to me; say 'yes,'" urged Jack Awdas, and he let himself down, softly, to sit on the wide wicker arm of the chair. She felt that if it were to save her life, her lips could not now frame the word "no." There was a short and agonizing pause in which both listened, without hearing it, to the sound of the wheels of a _fiacre_, drawing up outside the door of the hotel. "Say 'yes,'" repeated young Awdas, more urgently, "or I clear right out." "_Better_," she forced herself to murmur. "Better?----And if I go, I won't remember what you did for me that night. I shall try to forget it; d'you hear? I shall try----" "Don't," she said, very low. "I couldn't forget it if I tried." "_Ah!_" It broke from him exultantly. "Then you do care! I knew you would, I knew I could make you! The other was rot; I knew you did." She threw her head back and aside; she made a last struggle. She would have risen. "No, you don't," he triumphed. "Now say 'yes,' and then perhaps you may get up, darling; _darling_----!" At the delight of hearing it from his lips she shut her eyes even as a sweetheart of little Olwen's age might have done. It was her moment of ecstasy, poignant and ageless and pure.... A moment only. There broke into it footsteps and a girl's voice, a charming voice, but of an inflection most un-English. "Why, yes! Wasn't I expected? I wrote the hotel anyway.... _J'ai écrit_.... Miss Golden van Huysen.... Oh, pardon me----" Mrs. Cartwright's eyes had opened upon something that seemed like a sunburst breaking in upon the dim and formal, Frenchily-furnished lounge. A vision it was of gold and colour. Radiance seemed to emanate from it--from her.... For it was just a girl, a blonde and generously-built girl, whose coat, thrown open, showed a crisp light uniform with the Red Cross. Her head, proudly carried, was backed by the hanging lamp that made a glory around it, and Miss Golden van Huysen, self-introduced, might have stood for a symbolical figure of Young America breaking into the War, descending upon the Old Continent with help in her hands.