"I’m tired of running at your heels, I suppose.... A dog knows when he’s welcome.... After a while the lack of mutual sympathy gets on his nerves, and he strays by the roadside.... And sometimes, if lonely, the owner of another pair of heels will look behind her and find him paddling along.... That’s the life of the dog, Helen—with exceptions like that cur of Bill Sykes. But the great majority of pups won’t stay where they’re lonely for such love as they offer. For your dog must have love.... The love of the human god he worships. Or of some other god." He laughed lightly: "And I, who worship a goddess for her divine genius and her loveliness—I have trotted at her heels a long, long time, Helen, and I’m just beginning to understand, in my dog’s heart, that my divinity does not want me." "I—I _do_ want you!" "No, you don’t. You haven’t enough emotion in you to want anybody. You’re too complete, too self-satisfied, too intellectual, too clever to understand a heart’s desire—the swift, unselfish, unfeigned, uncalculated passion that makes us human. There’s nothing to you but intellect and beauty. And I’m fed up!" The girl rose, flushed and disconcerted by his brutality. Grayson got up, bland, imperturbable, accepting her departure pleasantly. She meant to go back all alone down the hillside; that was evident in her manner, in her furious calmness, in her ignoring the tiny handkerchief which he recovered from the moss and presented. She was far too angry to speak. He stood under the trees and watched her as she descended the hillside toward the house, just visible below. Down she went through the heated wild grass and ferns, stepping daintily over gulleys, avoiding jutting rocks, down, ever down hill, receding farther and farther from his view until, a long way below him, he saw her halt, a tiny, distant figure shining white and motionless in the sun. He waited for her to move on again out of sight. She did not. After a long while he saw her lift one arm and beckon him. "Am I a Fido?" he asked himself. "Damn it, I believe I am." And he started leisurely down hill. When he joined her where she stood waiting, her brown eyes avoided his glance and the colour in her cheeks grew brighter. "If you believe," she said, "that my mind controls my heart, why don’t you make it an intellectual argument with me? Why not appeal to my reason? Because I—I am intelligent enough to be open to conviction—if your logic proves sounder than—mine." "I can’t make love to you logically. Love doesn’t admit of it." "Love _is_ logical—or it’s piffle!" "I don’t know how to make intellectual love." "You’d better learn." "Could you give me a tip?" he asked timidly. Then Helen threw back her pretty head and began to laugh with that irresponsible, unfeigned, full-throated and human laughter that characterized the primitive girl when her naïve sense of humour was stirred to response by her lover of the cave.