She was so young and straight in her plain frock, so blessedly unconscious of herself. He thought of her fine strong body, the ungiven body that was so much her own, near him again after all the miracles of life that divide flesh from flesh and then bring it again within grasp; her sweet uncommanded beauty, irrelevant perhaps, yet so thrillingly a symbol of her essence. The noble body, poor blasphemed perfection, worshipped in the dead husks of statue and painting and yet so feared in its reality. He had to remind himself that it _was_ irrelevant. How could any man with a full quota of biology help dream of mastering that cool, unroused detachment? Ah, he had already had all of her that was imperishable: her dreams, her thoughts, her poor secret honesties. She had given him these, and nothing could spoil them. He had agreed with himself that his love was merely for her mind. (Distressing thought!) It was only the ridiculous need of keeping this passion to themselves that darkened and inflamed it. If it could be announced it would instantly become the purest thing on earth. It would be robbed of its sting. He imagined an engraved card:-- _Mr. and Mrs. George Granville have the honour to announce the betrothal of Mr. Granville’s mind to that of Miss Joyce Clyde Nothing Carnal_ “_Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments._” But this would satisfy no one. Perhaps not even themselves. And people don’t like things to be pure: it casts a rebuke on their own secrets. “Joyce, let’s make our announcement at this party.” “What announcement?” She looked startled. “Why, that our minds are engaged.” Her hand, in his, tightened a little, reproachfully. “George, before you go down. Who is this Mr. Martin?” “I don’t really know; some friend of Phyl’s. I never saw him before. She says he’s going to do a portrait of her. I think he’s kidding her.” He turned toward the stairs and then called her back. “Listen,” he said softly. “When I say something, after dinner, about putting the car away, that’s your cue. Slip away and come with me. I want to show you something.” XII The kitchen, that had been a core of fiery heat all day, was now more comfortable. Lizzie sat in an easy slouch, elbows on the oilcloth table cover, enjoying her own supper before attacking the great piles of dishes. The cleansed air, drifting through the open window, struck pleasantly on the moist glow of her body. There was a light tread on the back steps and the squeak of the screen door. The cook felt too deservedly slack to turn, but removed her mouth from the ear of com just far enough to speak. “Back early, ain’t you?” “Yeah. Brady’s shofer was coming this way in their station wagon. Save me walking later on.” “Didn’t expect you so soon, nice night like this.” “Well, Brady’s bus was coming. Say, that fellow’s got a nerve, all right.” Nounou tossed her hat on the shelf; ran her hands through her hair, sat down wearily in the other chair.