She tried to pull herself together, to inject some of her native rigidity of soul into her air—that rigidity which she always imagined would never desert her—but it was gone. There came instead to her a picture of the far Blue Island Avenue neighborhood from which she emanated—its low brown cottages, and then this smart, hard office and this strong man. He came out of such a marvelous world, apparently. A strange foaming seemed to be in her blood. She was deliriously, deliciously numb and happy. “Antoinette!” “Oh, I don’t know what I think,” she gasped. “I— Oh yes, I do, I do.” “I like your name,” he said, simply. “Antoinette.” And then, pulling her to him, he slipped his arm about her waist. She was frightened, numb, and then suddenly, not so much from shame as shock, tears rushed to her eyes. She turned and put her hand on the desk and hung her head and sobbed. “Why, Antoinette,” he asked, gently, bending over her, “are you so much unused to the world? I thought you said you loved me. Do you want me to forget all this and go on as before? I can, of course, if you can, you know.” He knew that she loved him, wanted him. She heard him plainly enough, shaking. “Do you?” he said, after a time, giving her moments in which to recover. “Oh, let me cry!” she recovered herself sufficiently to say, quite wildly. “I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s just because I’m nervous, I suppose. Please don’t mind me now.” “Antoinette,” he repeated, “look at me! Will you stop?” “Oh no, not now. My eyes are so bad.” “Antoinette! Come, look!” He put his hand under her chin. “See, I’m not so terrible.” “Oh,” she said, when her eyes met his again, “I—” And then she folded her arms against his breast while he petted her hand and held her close. “I’m not so bad, Antoinette. It’s you as much as it is me. You do love me, then?” “Yes, yes—oh yes!” “And you don’t mind?” “No. It’s all so strange.” Her face was hidden. “Kiss me, then.” She put up her lips and slipped her arms about him. He held her close.