resh and
princely out of long enchantment.... And there she stood with face
averted awaiting this Return!... This was the mysterious prince who had
wrought in darkness so long, the source of his dreams of woman's
greatness, the energy that had driven and held him true to his ideals,
the structure into which his spiritual life had been builded (was this
the world's mighty illusion possessing him?), and now the prince had
come, asking for his own.... And she was there, stretching out her
arms.

Mighty forces awoke from sleep. They were not of his mind, but deep
resolutions of all his life, forces of her own inspiring which she must
gladly, gloriously obey. Was it not her love token, this electric
power, as truly as his mind's ardor and his spiritual reverence?... The
miracle of her life's fragrance held him.... Even desire was beautiful
in a love like this. All nature trembles for the issue, when love such
as his perceives the ripe red fruit of a woman's lips.... But better
far not to know it at all, than to know the half.

* * * * *

And Beth was thinking of the cool depths in his eyes a moment before,
and of his words, "asking nothing."... "Why asks he nothing of me?...
Because I am old and cold."... Some terrific magnetism filled her
suddenly, as if she had drawn vitality from great spaces of sunlight,
and some flaming thing from the huge hot strength of Clarendon.... And
now the goading devil whispered:

"With another he would not ask, he would take! Only you--you do not
attract great passions. The source of such attraction is gone from you.
Mental interests and spiritual ideals are your sphere!... Second-rate
women whistle and the giants come! They know the lovers in men. _You_
know the sedate mental gardeners and the tepid priests. How you worship
that still, cool gazing in the eyes of men! Books and pictures are
quite enough--for your adventures in passion. In them, you meet your
great lovers--of other women. You are Beth Truba of street and studio.
You can send lovers away. You can make them afraid of your tongue,
strip them of all ardor with your nineteenth century bigotry.... You
have so many years to waste. Empty arms are so light and cool, _their_
veins are never scorched; they never dry with age!... Oh, red-haired
Beth Truba, all the spaces of sky are laughing at you! To-morrow or
next day, by the ocean, another woman will start the flames in those
cool eyes of his, and fee