Her face did not move, save for her mouth which closed as if it had been stung. Then, again, it parted. “Lawrence lives entirely in his ideas. A woman is no idea. Neither is a child.” “A child--” he cried. At once, she caught him up, crystallizing his presentiment of what she meant into a certainty. “Yes, Quincy--” she spoke in a biting tone, “I have no child.” But even his certainty required propping, so vast was the weight of dream and fancy which tumbled on it. He raked at her heart with a clumsy savagery. “Did you--did you want--?” “It would have been something,” she broke in, “to have been kind to. Do you understand? It would have been kind to give me that.” Again, the silence, while she sat looking at him, gently poised, one hand pressed sensuously down within its copper setting, the other dull behind her hair, and all of her body a vague rhythm within the shadows. Quincy was looking within himself. His task, in that tense moment, was there to find himself and to give her what he found. He felt that his word must be the next. He felt that it must be sincere. Surely, she would judge him by it. He was resolved that it should serve them well. Within the brief space of stillness, what did he find? A great pain for himself, in this tearing predicament, that faded utterly before the pain of her who had bared it for him. A great gratitude born of this offering. A blind rush of resolution searing his mind like lightning, that she should receive what she desired, though his life and his dreams tottered for his gift! A vague thrill of the need of risk and of its beauty. He knew that he must accept ere he could give. And though, within the press of that brief pause, no mind or thought could turn about, he must elect--must place the treasures of his life upon a pin-point altar, and give her all--or the smoke--incense--of that All’s destruction. His word was this: “You may be kind to me.” She took it in. “Come here,” she said. He came beside her--awkward. “Give me a kiss,” she commanded. And her lips waited. He bent over and kissed her. An agony flashed through the back of his neck--an agony for more. “That kiss was a promise?” she asked. His heart faltered. “A promise--of what?” “Kiss me again!” This time, his knees sank upon the couch. His arms went out and he clasped her, cool and piercing, to himself. His breathing allowed no word. “Was that kiss a promise?” she repeated. “Everything--” he stopped himself. There she was, still poised in her throne, unruffled, unmoved. But no! He looked at her bosom. She, also, was breathing hard. But she was trying to laugh. She was denying this, to herself. “You are kind, boy,” she said, her voice raised high, with her struggle to constrain it. “You are kind to let me be kind to you.” He stepped back toward his chair. “No!” She stopped him. The hand that had been behind her hair pressed low against her throat. That word had been almost a cry. She went on, composedly: