Out of his arms she steadied herself with a hand on the mantelpiece, the room blurred, no breath left her for speech. For a moment the place was noiseless save for the small, friendly sounds of the fire. Then she asked the woman's eternal question, "Do you love me?" "What do you think?" he said, surprised to hear his voice shaken and husky. "Oh, Boye," she cried and turned on him, clasping her hands against her heart, a figure of tragic intensity, "is it true? Do you mean it?" He nodded, silent because he was not sure of what to say. "It's not a lie? It's not just to get me because I'm Pancha Lopez who's never had a lover?" "My dear girl!" he gave his foreign shrug. "Why all this unbelief?" "Because it's natural, because I can't help it. I want to trust, I want to believe--but I'm afraid, I'm afraid of being hurt." She raised her clasped hands and covered her face with them. From behind their shield her voice came muffled and broken, "I couldn't stand that. I've never cared before, I never thought I would--anyway not like this. It's come and got me--it's got me down to the depths of my heart." "Why, Pancha," he said, exceedingly uneasy, sorry now he'd asked her, sorry he'd come. "What's the sense of talking that way--don't be so tragic. This isn't the stage of the Albion." "No, it's not." She dropped her hands and faced him. "It's real life--it's _my_ real life. It's the first I've ever had." And suddenly she went to him, caught his arm, and pressing against it looked with impassioned eyes into his. "Do you love me--not just to flirt and pay compliments, but truly--to want me more than any woman in the world? Tell me the truth." Her eyes held his, against his arm he could feel the beating of her heart. Just at that moment the truth was the last thing he could tell. "Little fool," he said softly, "I love you more than you deserve." Her breath came with a sob; she drooped her head and, resting her face against his shoulder, was still. Over her head he looked at the fire, with his free hand gently caressing her arm. He did not want to say any more. What he wanted was to get away, slide out of range of her eyes and her questions. It was his own fault that the interview had developed in a manner undesired and unintended, but that did not make him any the less anxious to end it. Presently she lifted her head and drew back from him. Stealing a look at her, he saw she was pale and that her eyes were wet. She put her fingers on them, pressing on the lids, her lips set close, her breast shaken. In dread of another emotional outburst he looked at his watch and said in a brisk, matter-of-fact tone, "Look here, young woman, this is awfully jolly, but I don't want to be the means of making trouble for you at the Albion. Won't you be late?" She started and came to life, throwing a bewildered glance about her for her hat. "Yes, I'd forgotten. I must hurry. It takes me an hour to make up."