She did not answer at once. She would have liked to send him away. She tried to recall the long slow series of events, each dovetailed so intricately into the next that had brought them so close. Her mind--her sense of fairness--told her that he had every right to stand there and talk at her; yet he seemed suddenly and oddly a stranger. “Suppose,” she said, “we stop discussing me.” He shook his head. “It's quite time to begin discussing you. It's suppressions, Sue. You've played the Village game with your mind, but you've kept your feelings under. The result is natural enough--your nerves are in a knot. You must let go--trust your emotions.” “I trust my emotions enough,” said she shortly. He walked back and forth. “Let's look at this dispassionately, Sue. We can, you and I. Of course I love you--you know that. There have been women enough in my life, but none of them has stirred my blood as you have. Not one. I want you--desperately--every minute--month in, month out. But”--he stood before her again--“if you can't let go with me, I'd almost--surely, yes, I can say it, I'd rather it would be somebody else then. But somebody, something. You're all buttled up. It's dangerous.” She stirred restlessly. “You know that as well as I.” He was merciless. The worst of it was he really seemed dispassionate. For the moment she could not question his sincerity. He went on--“As lately as last winter you would have carried all this off with a glorious flare. It's this suppression that has got to your nerves, as it was bound to. You're dodging, I'm afraid. You're refusing life.” He lit another cigarette. “It's damn puzzling. At heart you are, I know, a thoroughbred. I can't imagine you marrying for a living or to escape love. You're intelligent--too intelligent for that.” She moved restlessly, picked up the photograph and studied it again. “You can't go back to that home of yours...” “I'm not going back there,” she said. “And you can't quit. We're too deep in.” “Don't talk about that, Jacob!” she broke out. “I'm not going to quit.” He dropped casually on the arm of her chair. One big hand rested on the chair-back, the other took hers and held it, with the picture, a little higher. She seemed for an instant to shrink away; then, with slightly compressed lips, sat motionless. “You think I am squeamish,” she said. “Yes, I do.” They both looked at the photograph. “Really, Sue--why on earth!... What is it, anyway? Are you all of a sudden ashamed of your body?” “Don't expect me to explain. I know I'm inconsistent.” He pressed her hand; then his other big hand very quietly stroked her hair, slid down to her forehead, rested slightly on her flushed temple and cheek. “You poor child,” he said, “you're almost in a fever. You've got to do something. Don't you see that?” She was silent.