Jerry had never had to face anything that was difficult. Everything about him seemed to be saying that as he sat there, his thoughtful cigarette in his hand, his russet head poised meditatively. He saw Alix as a bright object that he naturally wanted, and now it was shown to him that, bright as she might be, darkness lay about her. It was evident to Giles that he turned away from the thought of darkness as he said presently: “Isn’t she absolutely the loveliest creature you ever beheld?” “Do you know,” Giles confessed, surprised by the change of theme, but willing to follow to the best of his ability, “I’ve never thought much about Alix’s appearance. I don’t suppose one does when one has known someone from a child. I suppose she is lovely. I like everything her face means; and the more I know Alix the more it goes on meaning.” “She’s a Nike,” said Jerry, gazing at the fire. “She’s on the prow of a Greek ship flying over the wine-dark sea. You’ve seen her dance—in that white and crystal dress with the silver round her head—it’s like the rhythm of Shelley’s Hymn of Pan. When I look at her dancing, I long to dance with her; when I dance with her, I long to be looking at her. Odd, isn’t it, how one never can get enough at once. She’s got the most extraordinarily cold eyes, you know,” said Jerry, fully launched upon his theme. “Even when one’s dancing with her and looks down into them;—she’s so happy, she smiles up at you—and yet they are as cold, as blue, as deep as mountain lakes.” “Yet she’s not cold,” said Giles. He was seeing Alix as Jerry spoke about her eyes, not dancing, not smiling, but looking as she had looked the other morning when she had said: “Now, if other things should fail her, she will know at least I am there to be depended upon.” With the words he had seen her go forward to take her mother by the hand. A tenderness, passionate, enfolding, had thrilled beneath the quiet words. How right had madame Vervier been in believing that she could count always upon Alix.—And Jerry only saw her dancing. But he himself wanted Alix to dance. He wanted her to marry Jerry. He believed that it might still be possible if Jerry could be good enough. “If you hold on, you know,” he said—and Jerry could not think it irrelevant—“I feel sure your mother will stand by you, and if she stands by you, everything will fall into place and you and Alix can go on dancing. So hold on. Deserve her. I’m standing by you already, as you know.” He smiled down at Jerry, so young, so slight, but so charming and so sound. If Jerry could get strength enough to hold on, he would waft Alix far away. Philosophers could have little to do with dancing white and silver Nikes. “Deserve her, you see,” he repeated.