-edged."

"Rather a crude way of putting it," he said a little uncomfortably.
"Nature has given you a power you can use for good. Why not use it?"

"But is it so powerful?"

"On dit."

"What do _you_ think?" She bent forward, leaning to him, smiling
audaciously in his eyes. Lionel would have been more than human if he
had not felt flattered. This delightful creature, whom at a first
meeting he had thought prudish and narrow, had developed amazingly.
Companionship for a fortnight with a gay man of spirit and address, who
did not lack a generous nature, had brought the bud to blossom. Now as
she smiled on him with inviting eyes he felt strongly tempted to
complete her education with a kiss. He temporized.

"What does it matter what I think?"

"It may matter a good deal," she said with a meaning he could not
fathom.

"Tell me."

She explained herself curiously. Instead of speaking she was silent for
a moment, as if choosing a course. Then with a friendly abandon she
rested her hands lightly on his shoulders and said, "No. You shall tell
me." Then she waited for the inevitable kiss.

Man is a strange animal. (I apologize for this truism, but, really,
Lionel himself must be my excuse.) A man may be a savage, a knave, a
brute, but beneath every human bosom there lurk some seeds of nobility,
however few and atrophied. Juvenile literature abounds with _loci
classici_. The thief who breaks into the night nursery is subdued by the
innocent prattle of Baby Tumkins; the drunken osler in the "Pig and
Whistle" is sobered by the consumptive angel who lisps, "Daddy, dear
daddy, do come home!" The blasphemous ravisher, mad in the hour of
victory, is tamed by the sight of a locket ("Heavens! how came this
here? Tell me, girl!") and drops his prey with an oath that is half a
prayer. And so on ... one need not accumulate examples.

Lionel did not kiss Miss Arkwright. Though he had dwelt on the
possibility, hoped for it, almost schemed and certainly desired; though
he had decided that his grass-bachelorship permitted such a kiss as was
now offered, he refused. Why? Partly, no doubt, because a kiss won by
half-forceful methods is worth more than a tribute freely offered;
partly because the offer tends to congeal the blood and curb the
desire--the ideal has stooped and taken a few inches off her goddess
statue; partly, too (the moralist will be glad to note), because he
remembered Beatrice.

Seeds of nobility? One must suppose