?"

"And I suppose _the_ one person is for all places."

"Do you feel at home with me here?" she asked him, rather abruptly and
with a searching look at him.

"Yes, quite--since our game. A good game is a link, isn't it?"

"For bodies."

"Well, that means a good deal. We live in the body."

"Some people marry through games, or hunting. They're the bodily people.
Others marry through the arts. Music pulls them together, or painting,
or literature. They are mental."

"Bodies--minds! And what about hearts?" asked Craven.

"The tide's coming in. Hearts? They work in mystery, I believe. I expect
when you love someone who hasn't a taste in common with you your heart
must be hard at work. Perhaps it is only opposites who can really love,
those who don't understand why. If you understand why you are on the
ground, you have no need of wings. Have you ever been afraid of anyone?"

Craven looked at her with a dawning of surprise.

"Do you mean of a German soldier, for instance?" he said.

"No, no! Of course not. Of anyone you have known personally; afraid of
anyone as an individual? That's what I mean."

"I can't remember that I ever have."

"Do you think it possible to love someone who inspires you at moments
with unreasoning dread?"

"No; candidly I don't."

"I think there can be attraction in repulsion."

"I should be very sorry for myself if I yielded to such an attraction."

"Why?"

"Because I think it would probably lead to disaster."

"How soberly you speak!" said Miss Van Tuyn, almost with an air of
distaste.

After a moment of silence she added:

"I don't believe an Englishman has the power to lose his head."

Craven sat a little nearer to her.

"Would you like to see me lose mine?" he asked.

"I don't say that. But I should like you to be able to."

"And you? You are an American girl. Don't you pride yourself on your
coolness, your self-control, your power to deal with any situation? If
Englishmen are sober minded, what about American women? Do _they_ lose
their heads easily?"

"No. That's why--"

She stopped abruptly.

"What is it you want to say to me? What are you trying to say?"

"Nothing!" she answered.

And her voice sounded almost sulky.

The bar of lemon light over the sea narrowed. Clouds, with gold tinted
edges, were encroaching upon it. The tide had turned, and, because they
knew it, the voice of the sea sounded louder to them. Already they could
imagine those sands by