thrilling her with his magic voice, his enchanted youth, the masterful
mystery of his eyes. What was he saying to her? What was this mounting
intoxication sweeping her senses--this delicious menace threatening her
very will? What did he want with her? What was he asking? What was he
doing now--with both her hands in his, and her gaze deeply lost in
his--and the ninth volume of Lamour on the floor between them, sprawling
there, abandoned, waving its helpless, discredited leaves in
air--discredited, abandoned, obsolete as her own specialty--her life's
work! He had taken that, too--taken her life's work from her. And in
return she was holding nothing!--nothing except a young man's
hands--strong, muscular hands which, after all, were holding her own
imprisoned. So she had nothing in exchange for the ninth volume of
Lamour; and her life's work had been annihilated by a smile; and she was
very much alone in the world--very isolated and very youthful.

After a while she emerged from the chaos of attempted reflection and
listened to what he was saying. He spoke very quietly, very distinctly,
not sparing himself, laying bare every deception without involving
anybody except himself.

He told her the entire history of his case, excluding Mr. Keen in
person; he told her about his aunt, about his birthday, about his
determination to let the legacy go. Then in a very manly way he told her
that he had never before loved a woman; and fell silent, her hands a
dead weight in his.

She was surprised that she could experience no resentment. A curious
inertia crept over her. She was tired of expectancy, tired of effort,
weary of the burden of decision. Life and its problems overweighted her.
Her eyes wandered to his broad young shoulders, then were raised to his
face.

"What shall we do?" she asked innocently.

Unresisting, she suffered him to explain. His explanation was not
elaborate; he only touched his lips to her hands and straightened up, a
trifle pale.

After a moment they walked together to the door and he took his hat and
gloves from the rack.

"Will you come to-morrow morning?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Come early. I am quite certain of how matters are with me. Everything
has gone out of my life--everything I once cared for--all the familiar
things. So come early, for I am quite alone without you."

"And I without you, Rosalind."

"That is only right," she said simply. "I shall cast no more shadows for
you. . . . Are yo