ed to live, they fought to mate,
so shall we, if need be."

She remembered Philip and shuddered slightly.

"What is the matter, Claire?" Lawrence drew her closer.

She did not answer. She was wondering how to tell him about Philip, and
afraid.

"Are you filled with terror at the mere thought of murder!" he asked.

She moved uneasily in his arms. "No, but I can't say I like to even
think of such a possibility."

"Don't, then. It isn't very likely to happen," he comforted.

She remained silent, but her pleasure was not untroubled. Her whole
impulse was to wait, but her brain kept demanding that she tell him now,
and she gathered herself for the effort.

"Lawrence"--she hesitated--"I--I have something I must tell you."

"All right. Go ahead; but confessions never do much good."

She drew away from him tenderly.

"Because my whole being wants to be in your arms, I will not--not while
I tell you," she said, sitting beside him. "I want you to hear and think
without my body in your arms as a determining factor in your answer."

"Very well. Go ahead. I promise to be an emotionless judge."

"Can you?" she asked quickly.

"No," he said, "but I will."

They both laughed, and she nerved herself to talk.

"It's about Philip," she said timidly.

He started.

"Don't tell me about him, Claire," he said. "It can't do any good, and
it's hard for you, I see. Whatever you are or were to Philip doesn't
matter to me in the least. The Claire of this morning wasn't my mate. It
is only Claire from now on that counts, and she is not in any way bound
to Philip for whatever may have occurred in the past."

"Oh, I wish that were true!" she moaned.

"It is true," he asserted.

"But you don't understand. Let me go on, please."

"Surely," he answered. "Say as much or as little as you wish."

She told him then, falteringly, sometimes wondering at his calm,
expressionless face as she talked. She was filled with dread, for he sat
as still as death, without a word, without a change of expression to
show her what he was thinking. She made many corrections to her
explanation, and supplied bits of comment in an effort to discover
herself how it all had happened. There was nothing of apology in her
attitude, however, and she finally concluded with an account of that
afternoon in her bedroom, and what she had said to Philip since that
day.

"Now," she said at last, "you know all about it. You can do as you
please, of course. If y