e said, "but why not be frank about it both ways; that is
precisely her situation as well as his. There ought to be less
sentimental rubbish and more plain sense about all of it. Women would
suffer less from shattered illusions, they would grow accustomed to
reality, and be considerably less idiotic in their romantic caperings."

"I admit it," Lawrence said, smiling; "and yet"--he paused--"I want to
be the maddest of romanticists, I want to say those things to the woman
I love, I want to think them about her, I want to feel them all, all
those dear, false romantic deceptions. I do, in fact, even though my
brain agrees with you."

"So should I, and I would." Then she added softly under her breath, "I
do."

Lawrence turned a little toward her, his fingers gripping the grass in
front of him.

"Claire," he said slowly, "I--I want to say them, think them, believe
them about and with you."

She did not move. Over her there swept a great joy, and her thinking
stopped. She was feeling all the dear things she had just condemned, and
she looked at her lover. He was blind. He could not see what was in her
face, and he was not sure that he interpreted her silence correctly. He
was waiting, anguishing, for her answer. She realized then what it was
he needed more than he himself knew.

"Lawrence," she cried joyfully, slipping into his arms, "I know what you
need, beloved!"

He laughed exultantly as he showered kisses upon her eagerly upturned
face.

"I guess you do, sweetheart," he consented. "What is it?"

She settled down with a sigh of content, her head against his shoulder,
and announced, very much like a child saying what it knows to be wisely
true: "You need a woman who is keen enough to think with you and be eyes
for you, natural and unspoiled by conventional sham enough to be your
heart's answer, self-willed enough to be herself and deny you and your
selfishness, and, above all, mother enough to care for you as she would
a child. I believe I am that woman, dearest boy!"

He held her tight in his arms and smiled.

"I not only think, I know you are."

For a long time they sat in silence, dreaming, loving, enjoying, and
caring nothing for all the rest of the world. At last Claire raised her
head from his shoulder and whispered, "Lawrence, before I would be
separated from you, I am afraid I would kill!"

He chuckled merrily. "Good!" he said. "That sounds proper. So would I.
We are alive because our ancestors kill